ASUNNYSUBALTE 

BILLY'S  LETTERS 
FROMFLANDEI 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


A  SUNNY 
SUBALTERN 

BILLY'S  LETTERS  FROM  FLANDERS 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Q* 


COPYRIGHT,  CANADA,  1916, 

BY  MCCLELLAND,  GOODCHILD  &  STEWART,  LIMITED 

TORONTO 


First  Impression  November,  1916 
Second  Impression  December,  1916 
Third  Impression  December,  1916 
Fourth  Impression  April,  191 7 
Fifth  Impression  April,  1917 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


dJ 


RESPECTFULLY    DEDICATED    TO 
THE  BRAVE  OFFICERS  AND  MEN 

of  "billy's"  BATTALION 


PREFACE 

At  the  earnest  solicitation  of  friends  I  am 
publishing  these  letters,  which  were  written 
without  any  attempt  at  literary  effect  and  in- 
tended only  for  a  mother's  eye.  I  am  sure  my 
son  will  be  pleased  if  they  are  the  means  of 
bringing  even  a  passing  pleasure  to  those  whose 
dear  ones  are  now  at  the  front,  to  those  whose 
loved  ones  have  made  the  supreme  sacrifice, 
and  to  any  others  who  may  read  this  book. 
This  be  my  apology  for  offering  them  to  the 
public. 

"Billy's"  Mother 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


A  Sunny  Subaltern 


November  23,  IQI5. 

Well,  the  great  adventure  is  on.  We 
sailed  out  of  St.  John  at  noon  to-day  amid 
a  perfect  babel  of  noise.    We  have  on  board 

with  us  the ,  a  detail  of  Medical  Corps, 

the ,  and  a  detail  of  the  Construction 

Corps,  troops  in  all.     Between  the 

bands  of  the  units,  the  bands  in  St.  John, 
the  shrieks  of  what  seemed  a  thousand  tugs 
which  bobbed  beside "a  regular  bed- 
lam" best  describes  the  send  off.  Every 
pier  looked  as  if  it  had  been  generously 
salted  and  peppered  from  one  end  of  the 
harbour  to  the  last  long  dock;  I  say  salted 
and  peppered,  for  the  sea  of  faces  and  dark 
clothes  gave  it  that  appearance.  Well,  any- 
way, away  we  steamed  out  into  the  East. 

I  can  assure  you,  Mother,  I  felt  rather 
[ii] 


A  Sunny  Subaltern 


November  23,  IQI5. 
Well,  the  great  adventure  is  on.     We 
sailed  out  of  St.  John  at  noon  to-day  amid 
a  perfect  babel  of  noise.    We  have  on  board 

with  us  the ,  a  detail  of  Medical  Corps, 

the ,  and  a  detail  of  the  Construction 

Corps,  troops  in  all.     Between  the 

bands  of  the  units,  the  bands  in  St.  John, 
the  shrieks  of  what  seemed  a  thousand  tugs 
which  bobbed  beside "a  regular  bed- 
lam" best  describes  the  send  off.  Every 
pier  looked  as  if  it  had  been  generously 
salted  and  peppered  from  one  end  of  the 
harbour  to  the  last  long  dock;  I  say  salted 
and  peppered,  for  the  sea  of  faces  and  dark 
clothes  gave  it  that  appearance.  Well,  any- 
way, away  we  steamed  out  into  the  East. 
I  can  assure  you,  Mother,  I  felt  rather 

[11] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


proud  of  being  in  khaki  as  we  marched 
through  the  thronged  streets.  The  bands 
playing  martial  airs  seemed  to  send  little 
shivers  up  and  down  my  spine,  and,  I  guess, 
awoke  some  of  the  old  primordial  instinct 
of  the  cave  man  for  it  sure  seemed  glorious 
to  be  on  the  way  to  fight.  I  know  you  dear 
ones  would  have  been  proud,  too,  of  me  and 
the  men.  I  say  the  men,  for  after  all  Tom- 
my is  the  most  important  man  in  the  Army 
and  our  whole  battalion  behaved  like  na- 
ture's gentlemen  in  St.  John.  However,  out 
we  steamed  on  a  sea  like  an  epergne  base — 
not  a  ripple  hardly.  Of  course  we  didn't 
have  much  time  but  I  managed  to  stand 
about  four  p.m.  and  watch  the  last  grey 
humps  of  Canada  fade  into  the  waves,  my 
last  glimpse  of  my  native  land  for  some  time 
to  come,  and  do  you  know,  dear,  that  despite 
the  fact  that  there  lay  all  my  associations, 
my  love  and  everything  that  any  man  holds 
dear,  I  can't  say  I  was  sorry,  for  ahead  there 
is  something  that  dwarfs  all  those  details. 

11*30  p.m. — Have  just  passed  Cape  Sable 
light  house,  the  last  link  with  land,  flashing 
[12] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


in  and  out  of  the  night.  A  beautiful  night, 
clear  moonlit  water,  and  just  enough  breeze 
to  send  a  salt  spray  up  over  the  bows. 

Wednesday  Evening. — Nothing  new  to- 
day. The  ocean  like  a  mill  pond  all  day 
and  not  even  a  roll  to  this  old  packet.  We 
have  a  few  men  who  are  seasick,  but  I  think 
they  must  be  awfully  upset  with  something 
for  it's  smoother  than  Lake  Ontario. 

Later. — I  have  just  taken  a  turn  on  deck 
and  the  wind  is  getting  up,  also  the  sea,  and 
a  small  look  at  the  barometer  informs  me 
she  is  at  29.  The  1st  Officer  says  it  looks 
like  a  storm,  so  I  fear  me  there  is  dirty  work 
aboard  the  lugger  this  evening. 

Friday  Evening. — This  discrepancy  is 
due,  not  to  sea  sickness,  but  to  the  fact  that 
I  was  on  guard  from  10  a.m.  yesterday  till 
10  a.m.  to-day,  and  in  about  as  bad  weather 
as  I  really  care  ever  to  see.  It  started  in 
Wednesday  night  and  blew  a  regular  gale 
head  on,  for  thirty-six  hours.  There  is  no 
use  in  my  trying  to  describe  it  for  I  can't. 
Suffice  it  to  say  she  was  a  real  storm.  My 
clothes  are  not  dry  yet,  being  soaked  through 

[13] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


and  through.  Every  one  was  seasick,  and 
if  I  could  describe  the  indescribable  horror 
of  men  crowded  together  as  they  were  in 
those  days,  I  know  you  wouldn't  believe  me. 
Oh !  it  was  horrible.  Sick  by  hundreds  lying 
around  anywhere  gasping  for  air.  Some 
slept  on  the  decks  in  a  drenched  condition, 
spray  sweeping  over  them,  and  of  thirty- 
nine  men  on  guard  I  finished  up  with  nine, 
the  remainder  all  being  sick.  The  stench 
below  was  something  to  remember,  and  oh, 
how  I  longed  to  take  some  of  the  men  up 
into  our  comfortable  quarters.  I  was  up 
for  practically  twenty-four  hours  and  on 
deck  two  out  of  every  six  hours  most  of  the 
time,  except  when  making  rounds  on  the 
bridge,  and  my  descriptive  vocabulary  fails 
me  when  I  try  to  tell  you  what  the  tail  end 
of  it  was  like  early  this  morning.  We  have 
a  slight  list  to  port — coal  moved,  probably 
— and  she  heaved  and  plunged  like  a  bron- 
cho in  the  huge  waves  that  drenched  me 
clear  up  on  the  bridge.  One  man  of  the 
crew  was  killed,  washed  off  the  ladder  lead- 
ing to  the  crow's  nest  into  the  forward 
[14] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


winches.  Broken  neck.  He  was  buried  this 
a.m.  However,  it  has  quieted  down  now 
and  to-night  is  smooth  again. 

Saturday  Night. — By  the  way  I  forgot 
to  mention  that  I  must  be  an  A i  sailor, 
for  nearly  every  one  has  been  ill  but  myself. 
I  have  eaten  every  meal  and  enjoyed  them 
and  never  felt  the  slightest  squeamishness, 
even  at  meals,  despite  the  fact  that  "the  Cap- 
tains and  Colonels  departed"  (apologies  to 
Rud)  from  the  table  very  hurriedly  at  times. 
There  is  no  news  worthy  of  mention.  We 
are  again  on  a  sea  of  glass  and  it  has  been 
bright  and  warm,  in  fact  warmer  than  I've 
felt  for  two  months,  and  we're  in  mid-At- 
lantic. To-night  it  is  like  Summer,  and 
others  who  have  crossed  before  say  it  is 
colder  in  July  than  this  trip.  Just  at  pres- 
ent we  are  cleaving  our  way  into  a  road  of 
silver,  for  the  moon  is  shining  directly  over 
our  bows,  and  it  is  a  wonderful  sight  appar- 
ently moving  up  &  shimmering  carpet  right 
to  the  old  man  of  green  cheese  fame.  At 
least  that  is  the  impression  recorded  by  me. 
A  carpet  of  silver  and  grey  lace,  like  one 

[15] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


of  those  red  and  black  ones  from  the  side- 
walk to  a  church  door  at  weddings,  dancing 
ahead  and  only  the  lap,  lap,  lap  of  the 
waters  as  one  stands  on  the  fo'castle. 

Monday  Evening. — Nothing  very  new, 
my  dear,  to  write,  just  the  old  monotony  of 
the  voyage,  which,  when  it  ends  will  be  a 
relief.  The  sea  has  changed,  and  from  a 
head  on  affair  has  turned  about  and  we  get 
her  abeam !  result,  a  roll  in  place  of  a  pitch. 
We  are  beginning  to  get  into  the  war  zone 
more  than  before,  and  expect  on  Tuesday 
and  Wednesday  to  be  near  it  if  not  right 
in  it. 

Wednesday  Morning. — Yesterday  we  had 
a  parade  with  life  belts  on,  every  man  on 
board  and  also  life-boat  drill.  It  is  really 
our  first  taste  of  what  is  sure  to  come  later, 
that  is,  having  to  calmly  face  the  possibility 
of  death,  and  do  you  know  it  really  didn't 
seem  to  bother  me  at  all.  I  suppose  the 
thoughts  of  it  for  months  and  months  have 
somewhat  dulled  the  sensibilities  of  "yours 
truly." 

To-morrow  we  expect  to  be  in . 

m 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


In  Camp,  England, 

December  $f  I9Ij>. 
Dear  Mother, — 

As  you  will  see,  we  are  here.  Since  send- 
ing the  sort  of  diary  I  wrote  on  board  boat, 
we  have  simply  arrived  and  come  here.  As 
we  came  up  the  channel  in  the  grey  of  the 
morning  it  surely  looked  good  to  see  land 
and  the  cliffs  of  Land's  End  and  Cornwall. 
The  whole  channel  was  dotted  with  small 
steam  trawlers  used  as  mine  sweepers,  and 
then  after  we  passed  The  Lizard,  and  our 
signals  were  taken  from  the  shore  station, 
out  of  the  distance  came  six  torpedo  boat 
destroyers  tearing  along  at  forty  miles  an 
hour  and  surrounded  us.  Ahead,  just  over 
the  horizon,  steamed  a  huge  cruiser.  Well, 
anyway,  just  after  lunch  we  steamed  into 
Plymouth  harbour,  a  rare  old  spot  indeed, 
filled  with  historic  memories  and  its  history 
checkered  with  incidents.  Devonport  be- 
side it  is  a  huge  naval  dockyard,  and  revenue 
cutters  and  naval  tugs  with  tenders  soon 
surrounded  us  and  our  baggage,  etc.,  was 
removed  to  shore.    As  it  was  very  late  at 

[17]' 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


night  when  we  arrived  we  remained  on 
board  all  night  and  started  off  at  9  a.m. 

Two  naval  tugs  named  after  two  Ply- 
mouth heroes,  Raleigh  and  Drake,  conveyed 
us  to  shore.  Between  frowning  walls  of 
grey  stone,  with  here  and  there  guns  nosing 
their  way  out,  we  landed  on  a  quay  and  en- 
trained in  a  long  English  train.  At  eleven 
we  started,  arriving  at  8  p.m.,  but  just  to 
dissect  my  feelings  or  to  describe  to  you  the 
journey,  is  a  task  I  can  scarcely  begin.  You 
know  everything  was  so  different  that  my 
head  fairly  ached  from  madly  turning  from 
one  side  of  the  coach  to  the  other  in  a  vain 
endeavour  to  see  everything  from  barmaids 
to  ruined  castles,  my  first  glimpse  of  either. 
The  quaint  old  churches  with  their  tiny 
graveyards ;  the  infinitesimal  quadrangles  of 
yellow,  black,  and  red,  called  fields;  the 
moss-covered  banks  and  ivy-clad  houses ;  the 
oaks  festooned  with  ivy,  mistletoe  and  holly 
all  in  red  and  white  bloom ;  the  villages  and 
towns  all  the  same,  checkerboards  of  roofs 
with  houses  identical  as  if  they  had  been 
turned  out  of  a  machine ;  the  shapely  hedge- 
[18] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


rows;  the  quiet  looking  sheep,  and  wild- 
eyed  cattle;  the  rabbits  scurrying  at  the 
train ;  the  pheasants  in  hundreds,  with  here 
and  there  a  heron  guarding  a  tiny  pool ;  the 
funny  little  stations,  yellow,  exactly  like  the 
ones  in  toy  train  sets,  the  white  lines  between 
green  ones  signifying  a  road — all  these  are 
jumbled  up  in  my  mind  into  a  hodge  podge 
of  pictures  that  is  so  conglomerate  I  fear 
me  it  will  take  some  time  to  sort  them  out. 
Of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  however,  that 
England  is  exactly  as  described  in  anything 
I  ever  read  and  it  fully  "lives  up  to  its  pic- 
ture book  reputation."  I  little  wonder  that 
England  has  produced  Chaucer,  Milton, 
Shakespeare,  Dickens,  and  after  looking  at 
a  grey  and  ivied  church  with  its  old  belfry 
and  the  funny  grey  slabs,  some  aslant,  some 
flat,  some  erect  in  the  iron-palinged  grave- 
yard, I  can  realise  how  the  Elegy  was  in- 
spired. 

Well,  we  arrived  at  a  depot  at  8  p.m., 
pitch  dark,  and  were  met  by  staff  officers, 
who  escorted  us  here  about  four  miles.  This 

[19J 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


is  under  the  famous  Aldershot  command 
which  has  200,000  troops  in  it  and  there 
are  several  camps.  We  are  the  first  bat- 
talion of  "Canadians,"  as  we  are  called,  to 
be  here,  and  the  other  units  turned  out,  and 
cheer  after  cheer  went  up  as  we  marched  in. 
There  is  a  Brigade  of  the  Royal  Sussex,  the 
Middlesex;  then  regiments  of  Argyll  and 
Sutherland  Highlanders,  Irish  Fusiliers, 
Gloucester  and  others,  all  famous  English 
corps.  There  are  twenty  odd  thousand  in 
this  camp  with  room  for  seventy.  Each 
platoon  has  a  long  building  to  itself  and 
every  convenience  that  one  could  imagine. 
Water,  hot  and  cold  baths,  electric  lights, 
game  rooms,  large,  bright,  airy  mess  rooms, 
concrete  walks  everywhere — in  fact  it  is  a 
revelation. 

We  officers  have  splendid  quarters.  A 
large  house  for  mess  with  huts  of  eight 
rooms,  four  to  a  room,  at  rear  a  fire  place 
tiled  in  each  room,  and  bath  attached,  so 
we  are  not  too  bad. 

However,  if  I  tell  all  the  news  at  once  I 
[20], 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


won't  have  anything  to  write  for  next  time, 
so  will  close.    With  fondest  love  to  all. 

Billy. 

Have  just  remembered  you  will  get  this 
about  Christmas,  so  will  wish  you  all  a  very 
Merry  Christmas  and  Happy  New  Year., 
That's  all  I  can  send  you  just  now,  but  when 
I  get  up  to  London  will  send  something 
more  tangible,  but  you  understand  my  posi- 
tion.   There  are  no  stores  here. 


In  Camp. 

'December  1 4,  1915. 
Dear  Mother, — 

Received  the  letter  you  wrote  addressed 
to  Army  P.O.,  but  have  mislaid  it  for  the 
time,  so  cannot  name  date.  However,  as  I 
want  to  catch  the  Canadian  mail  will  just 
ramble  on. 

Since  I  last  wrote  you  I've  had  so  many 
impressions  etched  on  my  brain  that  it  will 
be  a  very  incoherent  affair,  this  letter.  You 
know  everything  is  so  totally  foreign  to  the 

[21] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


style  of  life  I've  been  accustomed  to  that  it 
is  staggering.  However,  my  impressions, 
muddled  as  they  seem,  may  make  reading. 
Ever  since  childhood  I  have  studied  oppo- 
sites,  and  I  suppose  that  one  of  the  first  im- 
pressions a  child  gets  is  light  and  dark,  after 
that  heat  and  cold;  and  it's  about  these  latter 
I  wish  to  write.  The  cold  over  here  is  a 
very  good  cold  that  is  true  to  type.  It  is 
cold  and  goes  clean  through  and  the  heat 
differentiates  from  any  heat  which  hereto- 
fore has  caused  my  corpuscles  to  quicken  by 
doing  the  exact  opposite  of  the  cold,  viz., 
it  fails  to  penetrate.  I  am  convinced  that  if 
there  was  enough  of  it,  it  would  be  jake, 
but  the  great  aim  and  object  of  the  nation 
here  seems  to  be  to  heat  the  chimney.  At 
a  time  when  the  slogan  is,  "Conserve  the 
national  resources,"  they  are  per  second 
shooting  sufficient  calories  of  heat  out  into 
the  wide  world  (through  chimney  pots)  to 
make  Hades  an  air-cooled  six-cylinder  self- 
starter,  and  Satan  to  resign.  Their  grates 
are  pretty,  but  as  purveyors  of  warmth 
where  needed  fail  to  suit  "yours  trooly." 

[22] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


This  is  at  least  one  of  the  most  vivid  im- 
pressions I  have  and  a  poignant  regret  as 
well.  That  much  for  the  knock.  Now  for 
some  boosts.  She  surely  is  a  land  and  as  I 
told  you  measures  up  in  scenic  investiture 
better  than  any  scenic  artist's  stage  produc- 
tion ever  could  hope  to. 

Last  Wednesday  we  took  part  in  Brigade 
manoeuvres  with  the  117th  Brigade  of  the 
English  Army  doing  about  eighteen  miles' 
march.  It  was  the  first  day  in  which  Old 
Sol  deigned  to  lighten  his  lamp  for  us  and 
a  beautiful  day  for  marching.  Between 
miles  of  hedges,  along  roads  like  pavement, 
by  tiny  rivers,  over  quaint  bridges,  through 
hamlets  with  typical  inns  as  laid  out  by 
Dickens  &  Co.  and  by  a  Smithy  shop  under 
a  chestnut  tree  that  might  have  been  the  one 
Longfellow  wrote  about.  The  hedges  com- 
plied with  all  regulations,  draped  in  fall 
grandeur,  punctuated  here  and  there  by  a 
red  exclamation  mark  in  the  form  of  a  holly 
bush  and  from  which  at  intervals  scampered 
a  sleek  looking  grey  hare  or  else  flew  up  a 
scared  pheasant    Anyway  it  was  a  day  I 

[23] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


will  long  remember,  one  in  which  picture 
after  picture  was  limned  on  my  memory  in 
indelible  colours. 

It  was  a  great  sight,  too,  to  see  with  glasses 
from  a  hill  all  the  troops  in  action:  cavalry, 
artillery,  infantry,  signallers,  cyclists  and  a 
large  squad  of  aeroplanes  which  glinted  and 
dipped  here  and  there  in  the  sunlight.  We 
arrived  back  at  6  p.m.  tired,  but  I  sure  had 
enough  thoughts  to  keep  me  thinking,  also 
wishing  you  could  have  been  with  me  to 
enjoy  all  the  grandeur  of  it.  Picturesque 
Surrey  surely  lives  up  to  its  reputation. 

Saturday  most  of  the  boys  went  to  Lon- 
don, but  Young,  two  others  and  myself  went 
to  Guilford,  some  fourteen  miles.  It  is  a 
quaint  old  town  modernized.  Here  it  was 
that  Henry  VIII.  murdered  Anne  Boleyn, 
if  you  remember  history,  and  I  saw  an  old 
Grammar  school  authorized  in  1555  by  Ed- 
ward VI.  and  still  intact,  as  well  as  other 
old  buildings.  We  went  over  by  taxi.  I 
had  some  purchases  to  make  and  I  can  as- 
sure you  that  a  £  doesn't  go  as  far  here  as  a 
V  at  home;  as  near  as  I  can  figure  every- 
[*4] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


thing  is  seven  and  six.  It  seems  to  me  a  sort 
of  national  fetish,  either  five  ,and  six  or 
seven  and  six,  and  I  may  add  that  your  lov- 
ing son  was  short  changed  for  somewhere 
near  $2  as  well  as  I  can  figure.  Of  course 
this  is  a  general  thing  and  anybody  with  a 
maple  leaf  is  game  with  no  close  season,  so 
being  prepared  in  a  measure  I  am  sorer  than 
ever.  A  dimpled  dame  with  a  smile  like 
Calypso,  a  voice  like  Circe's  pipe  and  a  com- 
plexion a  la  Mrs.  Gervais  Graham,  while 
selling  me  a  nail  brush,  eased  the  harpoon 
into  me  so  neatly  that  I  never  felt  $2  worth 
of  barb  till  some  time  after  when  my 
numbed  senses  limbered  into  action.  It 
sure  beats  all  how  easy  one  is,  and  I  always 
figured  I  was  no  simp;  but  Barnum  was 
right. 

As  I  say,  seven  and  six  seems  to  be  a  fetish. 
At  least  everything  that  one  wanted  figured 
out  at  that  price,  except  a  pair  of  gloves 
which  I  could  buy  in  Canada  for  $1.75 — 
here  they  ask  only  eighteen  shillings! 
Somewhere  I  had  a  vague  idea  that  gloves 
were  cheap  over  here.     Say  not  so. 

[25] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


There  was,  however,  a  marketable  com- 
modity known  as  dinner,  which  we  pur- 
chased at  a  "Recommended  Hostelry"  and 
which  was  only  six  shillings  and  three 
pence.  Wouldn't  that  cause  your  grey  locks 
to  curl?  $1.52  for  a  second  class  meal  in 
a  third  rate  tavern  served  in  eighth  class 
style ;  but  oh,  as  a  recompense  I  had  an  op- 
portunity of  studying  in  her  native  haunts 
Ye  Barmaid.  A  ravishing  blonde  type,  evi- 
dently belonging  to  the  Amazonian  family, 
nearly  always  found  in  rear  of  polished  ma- 
hogany raking  her  lair  of  crystals  and  tow- 
els. Habits  affable,  courteous,  quick  and 
usually  gifted  with  a  line  of  repartee  totally 
foreign  to  any  other  species.  So  you  see 
there  was  a  rose  to  the  thorn  even  tho'  the 
stab  was  a  little  deep.  I  may  also  add  that 
I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Brown's  October 
Ale,  and  found  that  he  is  some  kicker.  At 
least  he  has  much  more  kick  than  his  cousin 
Bud.  In  fact  Bud  may  be  wiser  but  not 
nearly  as  strong.  Well,  dears,  there  is  very 
little  more  to  tell  except  that  with  the  ex- 
[26] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ception  of  one  day  it  has  rained  almost  con- 
tinually. 

Love  to and  all  the  family,  also  re- 
member me  to  any  one  who  cares. 

Billy. 


December  20,  IQI5- 
Dear  Mother, — 

Another  week  gone  by  and  to  catch  the 
Canadian  mail  must  write  to-night.  I've 
only  had  one  letter  from  you  since  I  came 
and  no  picture  of  you,  Maw;  perhaps  it 
has  gone  astray.  However,  I'll  let  you 
know  later. 

To  begin  the  chronicle  of  the  week:  It's 
just  the  same  old  story,  so  many  vivid  col- 
ours on  my  brain  I  cannot  seem  to  start. 
However,  I  am  taking  a  course  in  physical 
and  bayonet  fighting.  It's  all  courses  over 
here:  musketry,  bombing,  artillery,  en- 
trenching or  my  own  it  seems — half  of  the 
Lieutenants  are  at  one  or  the  other.  Mine 
is  Swedish  exercises.  A  wiry  little  Eng- 
lishman puts  us  through  (two  hours  in  the 

[273 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


morning  and  two  in  the  afternoon)  the 
toughest  kind  of  physical  drill,  crashing 
hither  and  thither  until  I  sometimes  wonder 
if  I'm  a  bird  or  only  a  relative  of  the  nim- 
ble chamois  which  I  am  told  leaps  from 
crag  to  crag.  At  any  rate  I  Ve  been  stiff  and 
sore  ever  since  I  started,  in  fact  there  are  a 
lot  of  muscles  in  my  carcass  that  I  never 
even  suspected,  and  after  four  hours  I  say 
with  fervour  "Straafe  Sweden."  We  start 
soon  to  give  it  to  the  companies,  and  believe 
me  I'll  get  some  action  then. 

Something  that  made  a  profound  impres- 
sion on  me  was  a  big  service  here  yesterday, 
5,000  men  with  four  bands  all  in  a  little 
glen.  Can  you  imagine  5,000  throats  peal- 
ing out  "O  Come  all  Ye  Faithful"  and  "On- 
ward Christian  Soldiers"  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  150  instruments.  It  echoed  and  re- 
verberated I'm  sure  for  miles,  and  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  khaki  one  lone  figure  in  a 
cassock  of  white  and  black.  If  you  could 
close  your  eyes  and  see  it  as  I  do,  I  know 
you'd  appreciate  it. 

Well,  I  saw  London,  only  a  sort  of  mov- 
[28]! 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ing  picture  but  nevertheless  London.  Yes- 
terday— Sunday — was  a  glorious  fall  day, 
sunlit  and  warm,  so  as  there  were  very  few 
staying  in  camp  six  of  us  decided  to  go  up 
to  the  city.  We  left  at  12.05  P-m  an(*  ar- 
rived back  1 1.30  p.m.  Of  course  I  couldn't 
tell  you  much  about  the  place;  it  is  just  a 
confused  jumble  of  grey  stone  buildings  and 
rattling  taxis;  of  khaki,  khaki  everywhere, 
always  attached  to  a  woman;  of  narrow 
sidewalks  and  crowded  hotels;  of  old 
rose  and  gold  restaurants  mirrored  all 
around  and  reflecting  principally  gorgeously 
gowned  women  all  sipping  tea  and  smoking 
cigarettes ;  of  varied  smells  from  sewers  and 
cheap  perfume  to  roses;  of  rumbling  motor 
busses  with,  sticking  out  prominently, 
Trafalgar  Square;  service  in  Westminster 
with  a  golden  throated  choir;  of  women, 
women,  women,  in  fact,  never  knew  there 
were  so  many;  of  dark  streets  at  night;  of 
the  Thames  by  moonlight;  and  oh!  a  thou- 
sand and  one  other  views  all  hashed  up.  I 
think  the  real  things  that  stand  out  are  the 
innumerable  women,  apparently  all  smok- 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ing  cigarettes,  and  the  price  of  dinner  at 
the  Cecil  which  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you 
as  your  frugal  mind  would  do  a  flivver  I'm 
sure.  But  as  I  remarked  before,  they  get 
enough  over  here.  Of  course  you  say 
"Why  go  there?"  but  there  are  only  certain 
places  officers  are  permitted  to  go,  prac- 
tically no  restaurants  outside  the  Criterion, 
Trocadero  and  the  Cecil  and  Savoy,  outside 
Claridge's  and  some  of  the  high-priced  ho- 
tels. But  anyway  I  enjoyed  the  fleeting 
trip  and  expect  to  spend  six  days  there  when 
I  get  my  leave,  and  of  course  I  want  then 
to  see  the  sights  that  are  worth  seeing,  not 
just  the  hustle  and  bustle. 

Well,  there  is  nothing  really  more  to  tell. 
We  just  go  on  each  day  with  the  usual 
work.  Last  Friday  was  out  again  with  the 
Brigade  with  blank  ammunition  machine 
guns  and  real  shells  in  artillery.  We  did 
good  work  and  got  the  decision  over  the 
four  other  battalions. 

I  think  you  had  better  address  the  mail 
c/o  Army  P.O.  as  we  may  move  from  here 
to  some  other  camp. 
[30] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


I  suppose  that  over  there  now  it's  cold  and 
lots  of  snow  while  here  everything  is  green. 
So  different,  and  sometimes  I  grow  just  a 
little  "Canada  sick"  despite  all  the  newness 
and  the  number  of  emotions  crowding 
around  me.     However,  dears,  good  night. 

With  all  my  love. 

Billy. 


New  Year's  Eve,  1915. 
Dear  Mother, — 

IVe  had  no  word  from  any  of  you,  ex- 
cept the  Christmas  card  from  Auntie  and 
the  photo  forwarded  from  St.  John,  for 
nearly  two  weeks.  I  got  the  photo  O.K. 
It  arrived  the  morning  after  Christmas  and 
I  am  sure  it  is  indeed  a  splendid  one  of 
"me  own  Maw."  It  surely  did  me  good  to 
look  into  the  dear  old  face  and  I  have  it 
on  the  table  where  it  is  in  full  view  all  the 
time.  I  also  got  the  Christmas  card  Aunty 
sent  and  a  nice  tie  from  the  G-girls.  I  had 
already  sent  them  one  of  our  Christmas 
cards.     I  also  got  a  dilly  box  of  eats  from 

[31] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


my  little  girl  ,  a  five-pound  box  of 

shortbread,  about  a  pound  of  salted  almonds 
"home  brewed,"  a  Christmas  cake  and  two 
or  three  other  kinds  of  eatings.  She's  a 
dear  thoughtful  kid  and  really  seems  to  be 
awfully  fond  of  me.  You  know  (this  is 
strictly  confidential)  I'm  very  fond  of  her, 
too,  and  somehow  or  other  over  here  the 
thoughts  of  those  that  are  near  and  dear, 
like  you  people  at  home,  crowd  around  one 
in  the  evenings  when  there's  not  much  to 
do,  and  tho'  I'm  not  getting  sentimental, 
nearly  every  night  before  I  go  to  bed,  I 
just  quietly  crash  out  into  the  night  and 
gaze  up  at  the  stars  and  moon,  and  look 
over  there,  wondering  what  you  all  are  do- 
ing. But  anyway,  dear,  I  am  going  to  give 
you  her  address  so  that  if,  as  may  be,  I 
don't  come  back,  you  can  write  her,  and  I 
know  you'll  understand,  dear. 

Well,  I  spent  one  of  the  most  rotten 
Christmases  I  ever  did.  There  were  nine 
of  us  marooned  here,  all  the  rest  went  away 
on  leave,  and  we  were  elected  to  stay.  It 
sure  was  a  dismal  hole.  We  just  sat  around 
t3*l 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


all  day,  in  fact  I  never  left  the  mess  except 
to  see  the  men  fed.  They  had  a  real  meal, 
turkey,  cauliflower,  potatoes,  soup,  plum 
pudding,  coffee.  Of  course  our  men  are 
very  well  fed,  much  better  than  the  British 
battalions,  but  it  took  eighty-nine  fifteen- 
pound  turkeys  to  feed  them.  However,  to 
hark  back,  we  "ossifers"  spent  a  dickens  of 
a  day,  and  I  sat  lamenting  upon  the  pass- 
ing of  the  good  old  Christmas,  like  Dickens 
wrote  about.  You  know  everything  is  and 
was  very  glum — so  many  families  in  mourn- 
ing— that  I  remarked  that  the  days  of  Dick- 
ens had  fled,  surely,  but  I  certainly  tried  to 
wish  with  Tiny  Tim  "A  Merry  Christmas 
indeed,  God  bless  us  every  one!" 

Well,  dinner  has  intervened  and  I've  in- 
tended ever  since  being  here  to  write  you 
something  about  the  country  round  about. 
It  is  Surrey  and  one  of  the  oldest  settled 
parts  of  England.  Beautiful  in  the  ex- 
treme, large  areas  of  woody  land  with  roll- 
ing hills  and  common  land  in  great  tracts. 
It  also  can  lay  claim  to  some  antiquity.  As 
I  told  you,  we  are  only  fifteen  miles  or  so 

[33] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


from  Aldershot,  but  close  at  hand  are  the 
villages  of  Haslemere,  Milford  and  God- 
aiming.  We  were  at  the  latter  place  which 
dates  back,  well,  further  than  even  I  can 
remember,  and  feel  sure  that  you'll  agree 
when  I  say  that  I  gazed  with  wonder  on 
an  oak  which  dates  back  to  the  Doomsday 
book  in  which  it  is  mentioned.  Ye  gods, 
think  of  it!  The  other  places  are  nearly  as 
ancient,  all  being  mentioned  in  a  grant  from 
my  old  pal,  King  Alfred,  to  his  cousin  some- 
body I've  forgotten ;  however,  as  I  never  ex- 
pect to  meet  him  this  side  of  eternity,  we 
will  pass  along.  We  went  through  Hasle- 
mere the  other  day.  Its  town  hall  is  300 
years  old  and  I  should  have  said  that  it 
really  has  no  claim  to  age,  as  I  read  on  a 
moss-covered  slab  that  its  charter  only  dated 
to  1 180  something,  in  fact  it  is  a  mere  youth, 
beardless  and  adolescent.  My  old  red- 
headed friend,  Queen  Betty,  once  attended 
a  fair  there.  It  is  famed  as  the  residence 
of  Tennyson,  Conan  Doyle,  Mrs.  Hum- 
phrey Ward  and  Lord  Wolseley,  so  you  see, 
dear,  in  all  this  bally  land  of  hoary  age,  I 
[34] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


feel  like  a  chip  on  an  ocean.  The  Ports- 
mouth road  we  walk  on  every  day  started 
in  the  Roman  days,  and  I  expect  many  a 
Druid  chanted  weird  words  around  a  tree 
that  sighs  and  groans  just  outside  my  win- 
dow. Between  here  and  Bramshot,  seven 
miles,  where  all  the  Canucks  are,  is  the 
Devil's  Punch  Bowl,  a  circular  hollow 
where  in  1786  a  man  was  murdered.  There 
is  the  ruin  of  the  gibbet  where  they  hanged 
the  murderers,  and  I  had  a  beer  in  the  Red 
Lion  Inn  nearby,  where  they  got  the  man 
drunk  before  the  murder.  Can  you  im- 
agine that?  Dickens  wrote  about  the  spot 
in  Nicholas  Nickleby  where  Nick  and 
Smike  walked  from  Portsmouth.  Look  it 
up. 

Well,  to-day  we  were  "inspected"  by 
General  Steele.  We  lined  up  in  a  splash- 
ing rain-storm  and  stood  at  attention  for 
about  thirty  minutes.  I  know  that  it  was 
while  Sherman  was  being  inspected  he  made 
his  famous  epigram,  "War  is  Hell!"  The 
only  bright  spot  was  when  the  band  struck 
up  "O  Canada."    It's  the  ,finst  time  it's 

[35] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


been  played  since  we  left,  and  it  surely 
sounded  great.  I'll  add,  at  first;  for  after 
it  continued  to  play  it  during  the  whole 
darn  ceremony  it  sounded  more  like  the 
Dead  March  or  any  other  bally  dirge  than 
anything.  Gee!  can  you  imagine  listening 
to  the  strains  of  Lavalle's  hymn  while  I 
gazed  at  a  pile  of  red  tiles,  with  aching  legs 
and  feet  until  they  all  melted  into  one,  then 
honeycombed  out  again  into  regular  cyl- 
inders. However,  we're  "a  fine  body  of 
men."  That  is  the  stock  phrase  of  every 
(reviewing  officer  until  I  begin  to  believe  "all 
men  are  liars."  I  know  you  would  have 
liked  to  see  your  son  in  full  war  attire,  full 
marching  kit,  blankets,  extra  shoes,  shav- 
ing utensils,  haversack,  great  coat,  under- 
wear, mess  tin,  rifle,  150  rounds  of  ammuni- 
tion, revolver,  binoculars, — I  think  that's 
all,  just  fifty-four  pounds  on  "me  noble 
torso,"  and  I  resembled  the  patient  ass  of 
burden  more  than  ever  before.  Hurrah 
for  the  life  of  a  soldier! 

There  is   some  talk  of  us  leaving  for 
Egypt  early  in  February,  although  nobody 
[36] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


knows  anything,  except  those  who  won't  tell. 
We  are  miles  above  the  English  battalions 
hereabouts  in  training,  and  can  give  them 
all  cards  and  spades  physically.  Of  course 
the  cream  of  English  manhood  is  already 
there,  and  there  are  just  the  remains,  so 
it's  not  a  fair  comparison. 

Well,  dear,  must  close.     Love  to  all,  in- 
cluding   who  I  hope  is  well.     Papers 

come  regularly,  thanks. 

Billy. 


In  Camp, 

January  Q,  IQI6. 
Dear  Mother,— 

I've  just  arrived  back  from  a  wonderful 
six  days  in  London  and  that  is  the  reason 
why  you  haven't  heard  before.  On  my  ar- 
rival here  there  were  two  letters  from  you 
dated  12th  and  19th  December  and  I  was 
very  glad  to  get  them.  Also  about  thirty 
pounds  worth  more  goods  from  that  little 

girl  in ,  including  a  cake,  tinned  goods, 

lobster,  pork  and  beans,  coffee,  fruits,  a 

[37] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


whole  box  of  spearmint  gum,  cigarettes,  and 
an  air  pillow.  Some  girl,  eh?  However, 
I  suppose  you  want  to  hear  all  about  Lun- 
non. 

Firstly,  I  can  tell  you  that  I  can't  de- 
scribe it.  I  mean  that  adjectives  won't 
come,  and  anyway  thousands  more  clever 
than  I,  tho'  not  so  handsome,  have  fallen 
down;  but,  dear,  can  you  imagine  the  thrills 
that  pulsed  through  me  as  I  gazed  on  all 
the  things  and  places  that  since  boyhood 
I've  read  and  dreamed  of?  Grey  old  Lon- 
don bristling  with  historic  spots  dear  to 
every  British  boy's  heart,  I  think,  and 
doubly  dear  to  mine  because  I  loved  history, 
whether  by  Green  or  Henty,  whether 
garbed  in  fiction  or  just  the  plain  red  school 
book,  and  trebly  dear  because  of  Dickens. 
You  know,  Mother,  there  is  something  wells 
up  in  me  nearly  akin  to  a  tear  when  I  think 
about  them  all.  Well,  anyway  I  revelled 
for  six  days  there  and  walked  and  saw  every- 
thing I  could.  I  spent  a  half  day  in  the 
musty  Old  Tower,  ransacked  it  from  en- 
trance gate  to  the  keep  of  the  White  Tower, 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


touched  the  spots  where  Anne  Boleyn,  Lady 
Jane  Grey,  Dudley,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 
and  all  the  others  lay  and  prayed  and  died. 
Climbed  twelfth  century  stairways,  trod 
twelfth  century  floorings,  read  inscriptions 
dug  in  the  walls  by  prisoners,  civil,  political 
or  religious,  and  came  out  in  a  daze,  my 
memory  flooded  with  emotions.  Then 
Westminster  Abbey — it  is  beyond  me  to  tell 
you  of  the  thoughts  engendered  as  I  stood 
in  the  vaulted  old  aisles,  while  a  glorious 
golden  throated  choir  of  boys  pealed  out 
anthems  to  the  crescendos  and  diminuendos 
of  an  organ  the  like  of  which  I  never  knew 
existed,  played  by  a  hand  that  was  guided 
by  a  heart  and  brain  directed  I'm  sure  by 
seraphs  or  cherubim.  Dear,  dear  Mother, 
all  through  it  ebbed  and  flowed  the  desire 
that  you  could  have  sat  with  me,  and  when 
the  lilting  cadences  of  a  boy  singing  The 
Recessional  melted  into  the  peal  of  the  or- 
gan I  think  I  cried  because  you  weren't 
there.  You  know,  dear,  I  may  never  come 
back,  but  I'm  so  thankful  for  the  memory 
of    that   wonderful    service.    That    alone 

[39] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


dwarfs  the  thought  that  I  stood  in  the  poets' 
corner,  or  that  I  walked  where  countless 
thousands  have  been  thrilled  before,  or  that 
above  me  hung  tattered  old  colours  echoing 
of  the  gone  glory  of  some  British  regiment. 
Then  I  walked  miles  in  the  old  city 
around  spots  immortalised  by  Dickens,  just 
started  out  and  walked  and  walked.  Of 
course  I  lost  my  way,  but  coppers  were  most 
obliging.  I  stood  at  noon  in  front  of  the 
Mansion  House  and  The  Bank  and  saw,  I 
suppose,  more  traffic  in  a  minute  than  those 
dear  old  legs  of  yours  dodged  in  ten  years, 
and  I  discovered  why  all  these  places  are 
called  circuses.  They  sure  are  full  three- 
ring  four-platform  ones,  each  deserving  of 
being  the  "Greatest  Show  on  Earth." 
There  is  just  as  much  to  see  as  in  Ringling 
Bros.,  and  the  difference  seems  to  be  there 
you  look  every  way  so  as  not  to  miss  any- 
thing; on  Piccadilly  circus,  for  instance,  you 
look  every  way  so  as  not  to  get  anything.  I 
always  felt  certain  that  I'd  have  a  hub 
smashed  in  and  wonder  now  just  how  I  es- 
caped. I  think  the  funniest  sight  I  saw  was 
[40] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


a  costermonger  with  a  donkey  like  a  minute 
and  a  cart  like  half  a  one,  crossways  on 
Trafalgar  Square  and  the  Strand  one  morn- 
ing. A  copper  at  one  end  shoved  and  talked 
while  another  pulled  and  talked,  and  every 
taxi  and  bus  driver  that  was  held  up  sat 
and  talked,  and  as  I'm  an  "ossifer"  and  pre- 
sumably a  gentleman,  I  really  couldn't 
write  you  what  they  said  or  what  the  coster 
said  back,  but  there  were  some  fine  ex- 
amples of  the  "retort  courteous"  a  la  An- 
glais prof  anus. 

Then  we  stayed  up  one  night  till  four 
and  went  at  five  to  Covent  Garden  Market. 
That  was  a  disappointment  tho'  as  every- 
thing was  dark,  so  we  only  heard  the  noise 
and  smelled  the  smells.  What,  ho!  that's 
sufficient. 

I  rode  on  top  of  a  bus  just  for  the  ex- 
perience, which  was  some,  and  looked  down 
on  humanity.  Then  we  went  to  Whitehall 
and  saw  the  guard  changed.  That  is  the 
only  regiment  not  in  khaki ;  the  guards  there 
still  being  in  gold,  red  and  tin  plate.    Be- 

[41] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ing  an  officer  I  received  a  regulation  salute. 
Ha!  Ha! 

We  also  gave  Buckingham  Palace  the 
"once  over"  and  went  all  through  the  Park. 
Buckingham  looked  very  nice,  but  you 
know  over  it  all  are  huge  bomb  nets  for 
protection,  which  I  guess  spoiled  the  ap- 
pearance. Then  I  did  what  every  one  does, 
I  guess,  got  lost  in  the  Cecil  Hotel,  and 
sooner  than  ask  I  wandered  into  forty  dif- 
ferent rooms  for  fifteen  minutes.  Gee! 
that  is  some  shack  for  size.  I  also  learned 
that  all  the  coal  used  to  heat  London  went 
into  a  shute  just  outside  my  window  at  the 
Regent  Palace  hotel  where  I  stayed.  At 
least  they  started  just  after  I  got  into  bed 
and  never  even  hesitated  till  I  got  up,  the 
din  being  accompanied  by  raucous  swear 
words  and  trite  repartee  from  the  navvies. 
The  hotel,  which  is  a  new  one,  is  some  hotel, 
by  the  way,  1,030  rooms,  and  they  had  2,100 
guests  for  New  Year's.  It  surely  is  the  last 
word  in  hotels.  A  winter  garden,  lounge, 
a  Louis  XVI.  room,  a  palm  room,  a  grill 
and  everything  else  you  ever  heard  of  and 
[42] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


a  lot  no  one  ever  did,  and  reasonable  too, 
six  shillings  for  bed  and  breakfast,  a  swell 
big  room  and  fair  breakfast,  but  never  let 
it  be  said  that  London  is  cheap.  I  can  at- 
test that  the  idea  is  erroneous  for  it  sure 
costs  a  pile  of  money  to  step  around  that 
city. 

However,  it  is  London  at  night  that  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  of,  if  I  can.  You 
understand  practically  no  lights  are  al- 
lowed. Stores,  etc.,  pull  down  blinds  and 
only  a  ray  peeps  out  of  doorways.  There 
are  no  street  lights  save  ghastly  green  ones 
that  cause  every  one  to  resemble  an  olive  in 
complexion;  and  the  busses  and  taxis  creep 
along  with  no  headlights,  and  even  the  side 
lamps,  which  must  be  oil,  shrouded,  so  that 
for  a  poor  pedestrian  to  cross  a  street  is  a 
dangerous  undertaking.  But  to  look  up  at 
the  steely  sky  is  the  sight:  ribbons,  seem- 
ingly miles  long,  shooting  in  every  direction 
as  bright  as  the  brightest  Northern  lights, 
the  anti-air  craft  searchlights.  That  is  in- 
deed a  wonderful  sight;  the  opaque  little 
glimmers  that  surround  one  on  the  side- 

IE43] 


&  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


walk,  and  those  only  on  main  streets;  and 
up  above,  as  one  would  think  for  miles 
these  powerful  searchlights  sweeping 
across  the  sky;  and  then  the  slow-moving 
crowds,  for  they  saunter  leisurely  along  at 
all  times;  and  the  continuous  nerve-racking 
honk,  honk,  honk,  of  cars,  punctuated  by 
the  shrill  whistles  of  theatre  and  restaurant 
doorkeepers  calling  taxis,  which  are  at  a 
premium  in  the  evening,  all  impressed  me 
wonderfully.  And  then  to  step  into  the 
hotel  rotundas  from  nearly  abyssmal  dark- 
ness and  a  veritable  babel  of  harsh  sounds — 
into  a  brilliantly  lit  rotunda,  resonant  with 
hearty  laughter,  male  and  female,  encrusted 
as  it  were  by  orchestras,  is  some  transition, 
I  can  assure  you.  To  walk  in  and  see  the 
women  gorgeously  gowned,  and  the  officers 
in  khaki  from  the  army,  and  naval  blue  and 
gold,  one  almost  forgets  that  150  miles  away 
there  is  a  war;  until  suddenly,  direct  from 
the  trench,  in  walks  a  soldier,  mud  from 
toes  to  crown,  begrimed  and  laden  with 
heavy  marching  order,  jostling  his  way  up 
to  the  desk  through  the  immaculate  throng. 
IE44] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


That  brings  it  back,  as  does  also  the  sight 
of  a  poor  fellow  on  crutches  or  without  an 
arm,  but  it  scarcely  seems  possible. 

And  what  a  study  in  character  is  there  in 
a  cosmopolitan  crowd.  Here  a  festive 
young  lieutenant,  there  a  florid  faced  naval 
man,  yonder  a  paunchy  Major,  all  endeav- 
ouring to  thoroughly  enjoy  life  for  six  days. 
And  the  women!  Oh  the  women!  Here- 
tofore I  had  been  under  the  impression  that 
English  women  did  not  know  how  to  dress, 
but  the  frumps  we  see  are  no  criterion. 
"Lord  lumme !"  but  they  sure  do  dress.  Ra- 
diant blondes  in  diaphanous  garbs  in  greater 
numbers  than  I  ever  imagined,  beautiful 
brunettes  and  sparkling  sorrels  in  such  pro- 
fusion that  it  is  staggering.  They  all  loll 
around  in  the  places  irregardless  of  class. 
In  the  Carlton  tea  room  one  day  a  ravish- 
ing creature  who  turned  out  to  be  one  of 
England's  first  beauties,  sat  rubbing  backs 
nearly  with  a  woman  plainly  a  wanton,  and 
I  am  told  it  is  an  every  day  occurrence. 
Anyway,  they  all  sip  tea  or  cocktails,  smoke 
cigarettes  and  display  an  amount  of  silk  en- 

[453 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


cased  leg  to  cause  me  to  wonder  consider- 
ably. And  do  you  know  I,  in  a  measure, 
doubted  my  earliest  beliefs  in  the  decency 
of  womanhood  after  some  of  the  displays 
that  I  witnessed.  Certainly  a  shock  to  my 
morals  and  mentality  as  heretofore  con- 
stituted. 

Now,  my  dear,  must  close,  will  write 
•more  later,  but  we  have  to  welcome  the 
Canadian  Mechanical  Transport  who  are 
just  arriving. 

Love  to  all.  Billy. 

Later. 
Well,  dear,  after  reading  this  over  I've 
found  that  I  haven't  told  you  anything;  at 
least  so  it  seems.  I  can't  believe  that  my 
thoughts  won't  come  for  I  always  tried  to 
tabulate  everything  that  occurred  so  that  I 
could  tell  you  about  it,  and  figured  how  to 
express  it,  but  it  seems  as  tho'  I  can't  think 
of  them.  When  I  started  this  page  I 
thought  I  could,  but  I  can't.  However,  I 
certainly  enjoyed  my  trip  and  the  memory 
of  it  will  linger  long  with  me.  I  tried 
146] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


everywhere  to  buy  something  for  Aunty 
and  you.  But  somehow  there  seemed  to  be 
nothing  for  women,  except  ordinary  things. 
Every  one  sells  war  materials  for  men  and 
the  bally  shops  seem  crammed  with  nothing 
but  trench  clothing,  smokes,  alcohol  lamps, 
safety  razors  and  steel  mirrors.  I  wanted 
to  get  an  antique  for  the  house  but  searched, 
and  searched,  and  found  nothing  I  wanted 
that  I  could  afford;  so  finally  in  despera- 
tion crashed  into  Harrod's  and  purchased 
you  each  a  pair  of  gloves.  The  thoughts  go 
with  them  even  if  they  are  only  common 
place ;  you  know  that,  dear  ones.  However, 
I  did  buy  a  leather  frame  for  your  picture. 
That  was  selfishness,  I  suppose,  but  I  did 
want  to  keep  it  nice  and  it  was  awfully  ex- 
pensive, the  frame,  nine  shillings,  but  I'll 
just  nip  off  somewhere  else.  Things  cost 
like  the  devil  here  and  food  is  awful.  Our 
mess  is  something  scandalous  and  I'm  en- 
closing my  last  month's  bill  to  let  you  see  it. 
It  is  nearly  $37.75  for  twenty-eight  days  for 
food  and  some  cigarettes,  which  is  awful, 
you'll  agree.    We  got  our  $100  here,  but 

[47] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


most  of  it  is  gone  for  a  revolver  and  binocu- 
lars. These  two  sixty-five  dollars  alone — 
then  a  compass  and  several  small  things 
such  as  map  case,  fourteen  shillings,  etc., 
and  I've  yet  got  to  buy  several  small  mat- 
ters for  my  kit. 

Well,  dear,  will  close  again.    Love  and 
write  soon. 

Billy. 


Royal  Huts  Hotel, 

January  JI,  IQl6. 
Dear  Mother, — 

I  am  only  stopping  here  for  an  hour,  and 
as  I  have  just  finished  tea,  I  thought  I 
would  improve  the  shining  hour,  which  has 
been  a  mighty  scarce  article  for  the  last  two 
weeks.  My  last  epistle  to  you  was,  I  think, 
dashed  off  on  a  typewriter  at  Bordon.  Since 
then  IVe  had  an  eventful  career. 

Dates  are  all  messed  up  in  my  mind,  but 
a  week  last  Friday  we  left  Bordon  after  two 
weeks  of  awful  work  and  marched  to  Wit- 
ley,  twenty-one  miles.    Saturday  morning, 
[48] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


under  orders,  the  whole  battalion  left  for 
Bramshot,  where  we  are  now,  and  Sunday 
night  I  was,  on  fifteen  minutes'  notice,  sent 
over  to  Aldershot  to  take  an  advanced  sig- 
nalling course.  Some  movement  for  your 
one  and  only,  and  if  you  were  a  Sherlock 
Holmes  you  would  deduce  that  it  presages 
something,  and  that  something  is,  that  we 
are  to  move  to  France  as  soon  as  we  can  be 
equipped,  which  is  about  the  third  week  in 
February.  Of  course,  dear,  I  know  that 
that  doesn't  just  appeal  to  you  as  strongly  as 
it  does  to  me,  but  it  is  really  the  best  bit  of 
news  I  ever  wrote  you,  from  my  viewpoint; 
for,  dear,  it  bespeaks  much:  first,  that  we 
are  a  well-disciplined  and  trained  regi- 
ment; secondly,  that  we  are  physically  fit 
to  go;  and  when  you  consider  that  it  was 
only  in  May  last  that  we  started  and  that 
there  are  45,000  troops  over  here  from  Can- 
ada, and  we  with  three  others  were  selected 
to  form  a  new  Brigade  in  the  Second  Divi- 
sion, you'll  understand  that  we  are  proud. 
Just  think;  we  leave  the  — th,  — th,  — th, 
and  all  those  others  formed  six  months  be- 

[49] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


fore  us,  behind,  and  so  I  say  again  that  we, 
as  a  battalion,  have  reason  to  be  proud. 
And  you,  as  my  dear,  dear  Mother,  have 
also  reason;  not  just  because  I'm  in  the  bat- 
talion, but  because  your  only  son  was  paid 
a  great  compliment.  An  Imperial  Army 
Sergeant-Major  from  Aldershot  who  was 
in  charge  of  the  various  platoons  for  some 
time,  and  one  of  those  old-time  regular 
army  fellows  to  whom  discipline  is  a  god, 
told  the  Colonel  that  my  platoon  was  the 
best  disciplined  one  in  the  battalion  and 
exceptionally  smart;  which  is,  you'll  admit, 
a  feather  in  my  cap,  and  for  which  I  was 
complimented  by  my  Colonel.  Then  our 
Signalling  Officer  has  been  made  Brigade 
Signaller,  which  is  a  boost  for  him,  and  one 
of  our  Majors  is  Acting  Brigade  Major, 
and  likely  to  obtain  the  place  permanently, 
and  our  Chaplain  has  been  made  Brigade 
Chaplain;  all  of  which  reflects  great  credit 
on  our  battalion,  and  we're  trying  awfully 
hard  to  live  up  to  our  reputation.  Now, 
aren't  you  proud?  One  of  Canada's  pre- 
mier battalions  and  your  son  a  "hossifer" 
[50] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


in  it!  I  don't  suppose,  dear,  that  gazing 
adown  the  vista  of  years  to  the  time  of  my 
babyhood  you  ever  dreamed  that  I  should 
one  day  stand  where  I  am  now.  I  suppose 
mothers  like  you  can  sing  "I  didn't  raise  my 
boy  to  be  a  soldier;"  but  since  he  is  raised 
and  is  a  soldier,  I  do  want  my  mother  to  be 
proud  of  me.  For,  after  all,  dear,  although 
I've  never  notched  very  deep  heretofore, 
and,  I  know,  not  just  accomplished  what 
you'd  have  had  me  do,  still  I  think  that 
with  your  love  for  success,  and  the  top  of 
the  ladder,  you'll  be  proud  that  I'm  at  least 
a  good  lieutenant,  for,  oh,  dear,  I've  tried 
very  hard.  And  so  we're  going  "over 
there,"  perhaps  soon  after  you  get  this  letter. 
I  want  you  at  once  to  send  me  on  a  card, 
if  possible,  obtained  from  the  Bank  of 
Montreal,  your  signature,  as  I  am  going  to 
make  my  bank  account  a  joint  one  in  both 
our  names,  either  to  draw  cheques.  This 
will  enable  you  to  draw  out  at  any  time 
anything  to  my  credit,  and  avoid  the  ex- 
pense of  litigation  or  probate  should  they 
bump  me  off.    Send  the  signature  direct  to 

[5i] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


the  Bank  as  per  enclosed  cheque  address 
and  I'll  arrange  it  here.  Don't  delay  a 
day.  The  cheque  you  will  keep  so  as  to 
have  it  by  you,  to  draw  if  you  want  to. 

I  am  expressing  back  to  Canada  my  rain 
coat,  also  my  great  coat  or  possibly  only  the 
latter.  We  all  had  to  buy  what  they  call 
trench  coats,  rubber  coats,  fleece  lined, 
which  cost  seven  pounds  fifteen  shillings,  as 
a  great  coat  is  too  heavy,  and  if  it  gets  wet 
takes  days  to  dry  out,  so  I  fear  me  is  not 
much  use.  My  other  goods  I'm  putting  in 
storage  in  London  and  will  advise  you  in 
regard  to  them  later.  We  are  all  busy  buy- 
ing trench  necessities,  such  as  high  rubber 
boots,  periscopes,  Wolseley  valises, — a  con- 
trivance holding  blankets  and  clothes,  as  we 
are  only  allowed  thirty-five  pounds  of  bag- 
gage outside  what  we  carry,  and  they  must 
be  in  these  valises.  They  cost  four  pounds, 
but  are  essential,  otherwise  you  can't  have 
anything  taken.  Suitcases  and  trunks  are 
barred  for  obvious  reasons.  In  fact,  when 
I  get  all  dolled  up  in  heavy  marching  order 
which  I  described  before,  I  resemble  a 
152] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Christmas  tree  that's  been  having  a  night 
out  more  than  anything,  and  feel  sure 
Richard  III.  was  in  somewhat  a  similar 
state  when  he  uttered  that  very  salient  re- 
mark, "A  horse,  a  horse,  my  kingdom, 
etc." 

However,  that  doesn't  explain  why  I  am 
at  the  Royal  Huts  which  I  started  to  in  the 
preamble.  Well,  last  Sunday  the  Colonel 
suddenly  walked  into  the  mess  and  said, 
"You'll  go  to  Aldershot  to-night  to  take  an 
advanced  signalling  course."  I  remon- 
strated that  an  advanced  signalling  was  a 
trifle  premature  as  I  had  never  even  had  an 
elementary  one,  but  old  Tennyson  knew 
whereof  he  spoke,  "There's  not  to  reason 
why,"  etc.,  and  so,  like  a  lamb  to  Armour's, 
I  hied  me  on  my  way. 

Arrived,  and  the  first  thing  Monday 
morning  they  just  flung  at  me  through 
space,  six  words  a  minute  in  Morse  tele- 
graph code  on  a  delightful  invention  known 
as  a  buzzer,  which  is  the  same  as  a  door  bell 
run  by  a  telegraph  key.  In  view  of  the  fact 
that  I'd  never  even  been  introduced  to  one 

[53] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


previously,  and  that  I  certainly  wasn't  on 
speaking  terms  with  it,  I  failed  to  measure 
up,  but  I  went  to  the  Commandant  of  the 
School  and  between  talking  to  him  and  cry- 
ing at  him,  induced  him  to  allow  me  to  stay, 
insisting  in  right  good  Canadian  fashion 
that  as  I'd  come  to  take  a  signalling  course, 
it  was  patent  I  could  scarcely  go  home  with- 
out one.  I  tell  you  that  gift  of  gab  is  jake 
sometimes.  So  a  sergeant  was  appointed  to 
give  me  elementary  instruction  in  the  vari- 
ous forms  of  army  communication,  viz., 
buzzer,  heliograph — a  sort  of  Spanish- 
inquisition-looking-affair,  which  reflects  the 
sun  from  a  mirror  across  the  country — a 
lamp  with  a  shutter  in  front  for  sending  at 
night,  and  also  by  wigwagging  a  flag  thusly 
from  here  over  to  there,  and  from  this  posi- 
tion over  to  this  other  one;  a  very  simple 
little  affair,  figured  out  by  some  of  the 
mightiest  brains  of  all  time,  but  requiring 
arms  like  the  village  blacksmith  to  send  and 
eyes  like  a  cat  to  read.  Well,  so  far  I've 
grubbed  along,  but  you'll  realise  that  to 
learn  Morse  on  six  different  instruments  in 
154] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


fourteen  days  is  not  just  what  in  restaurant 
life  is  called  a  "short  order."  However, 
I'm  working  from  9  a.m.  till  10  p.m.  with 
three  hours  for  lunch,  the  indispensable  tea 
and  dinner,  and  hope  to  acquire  sufficient 
knowledge  ere  this  week  is  out  to  pass  out 
at  six  words  a  minute.  So  far,  I'm  just  a 
conglomeration  of  churned-up  dots  and 
dashes,  and  find  myself  going  to  sleep  say- 
ing dot — dot — dash — dash — damn — damn ; 
which  all  doesn't  explain  why  I'm  here  at 
Royal  Huts.  In  fact,  I'm  beginning  to 
question  if  I'll  ever  tell  you,  as  I've  just  re- 
membered that  the  — th  battalion  has  been 
broken  up,  only  a  band  and  a  few  handy 
men  left  to  clean  up.  Solomon  said,  "Pride 
goeth,"  etc. 

Anyhow,  to-day,  being  marooned  at  Al- 
dershot,  and  wanting  mail,  etc.,  I  came 
over  to  Bramshot,  sixteen  miles,  and  was 
starting  back,  or  rather  did  start  back.  The 
mode  of  locomotion  is  a  motor-bus  which 
is  a  pay-as-you-enter-run-when-it-pleases 
affair.  It  resembles  any  street  car  I  ever 
remember,  inasmuch  as  it  seats  fourteen,  but 

[55] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


holds  thirty-two.  It  seems  to  have  a  deal 
of  trouble  in  breathing,  and  is  rheumatic 
in  every  joint.  I  feel  sure  if  its  pedigree 
were  looked  into,  it  would  have  been  sired 
by  the  first  Ford  and  damned  by  every  one 
who  ever  rode  in  it.  Well,  we  started  out, 
the  thirty-two  all  being  present  at  roll  call, 
each  one  a  soldier  (private)  except  his 
breath  which  was  and  still  is  and  likely  will 
be  (from  the  ribald  glee  emitting  from  the 
bar)  an  admixture  of  gin  and  beer,  (not  at 
all  like  the  fragrant  rose  of  old  England). 
This  breath  when  breathed  upon  one  in  con- 
junction with  a  sweet  scented  odour  of  gaso- 
line which  leaks  through  the  floor  of  the 
bus,  only  convinces  me  that  I  have  nothing 
to  fear  from  German  gas.  Well,  anyway, 
we  got  thus  far  when  the  bus  busted;  at 
least  she  sat  down  figuratively,  and  no 
amount  of  coaxing  would  induce  her  to 
arise.  So  we  jostled  out  and  in  here  where 
I  am  sitting  awaiting  the  arrival  of  another 
affair  which  I  trust  is  more  physically  fit 
than  the  other  was. 
I  have  no  more  paper,  this  being  some  in 
[56] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


my  pocket,  but  must  close  anyway.  Don't 
forget  all  the  instructions  and  address  al- 
ways c/o  Army  P.O.  Will  write  you  more 
fully  during  the  week,  but  want  this  to 
catch  Canadian  mail  leaving  Monday. 
Love  to  all. 

Billy. 


February  8,  igi6. 
Dear  Mother,— 

Your  two  letters  written,  one  en  route, 
the  other  from  Toronto,  arrived  on  the 
Canadian  mail,  and  I  was  glad  to  hear  that 
you  arrived  safely.  I  also  got  some  letters 
last  week  at  Aldershot  telling  me  of  the 
desperate  cold.     Gee,  that  was  sure  some 

cold,  Eh!    A  letter  also  arrived  from 

last  week  and  one  to-day  from .    I  am 

writing  to  her  to  thank  for  the  sox,  also  to 
for  the  cigarettes. 

I  arrived  back  here  Sunday  night  from 
my  signalling  course  and  to-day  received 
word  that  I  got  "Very  good"  out  of  a  class 
of  forty,  which   means   I   obtained   over 

[571 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ninety  per  cent,  and  the  Colonel  is  quite 
pleased  and  said  to-night  at  mess,  "Oh,  I 
knew  you'd  pull  through."    Well,  I  landed 

back  as  I  tell  you  and  found  that ,  my 

Company  Commander,  or  O.  C.  Co'y, 
meaning  Officer  Commanding  Company, 
was  ill,  and  I  was  senior,  so  had  to  take 
charge  yesterday  and  to-day  of  the  whole 
company.  That  is,  hold  orderly  room, 
which  is  the  soldiers'  court  where  he  is 
punished  for  offences.  For  instance,  John 
Smith  in  private  life  is  John  Smith;  here 
he  is  No.  41 144,  Pte.  Smith,  John,  and  if  he 
is  wont  to  imbibe  too  much  of  the  "cup  that 
clears  to-day  of  past  regrets,"  is  placed  in 
the  clink.  The  next  day  he  is  brought  be- 
fore his  O.  C.  Co'y  who,  if  he  feels  he  can 
adjudicate  upon  the  case,  sentences  him;  but 
as  his  powers  are  limited,  and  if  the  case  de- 
serves greater  punishing,  he  remands  him 
to  a  higher  court,  viz. :  the  Colonel  or  Com- 
manding Officer.  Well,  I  had  to  adjudi- 
cate upon  three  yesterday  and  four  to-day, 
all  for  being  absent  without  leave,  which  is 
a  crime  in  the  army.  By  crime  I  mean  not 
[58] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


as  generally  interpreted,  but  anything  for 
which  he  can  be  punished,  and  the  longer 
I'm  in  this  game  the  more  I'm  convinced 
that  one  can  be  punished  for  anything;  and 
when  a  soldier  is  discharged  after  years' 
service  without  a  crime  on  his  record,  I  cer- 
tainly consider  him  a  mighty  clever  chap 
for  covering  up  his  crimes.  It  certainly  is 
a  supreme  example  of  the  two  great  classes, 
the  convicted  and  the  unconvicted;  for  if 
the  aforesaid  No.  41 144,  Pte.  Smith,  John, 
while  standing  on  parade  should  be  sud- 
denly seized  with  a  violent  tickling  of  his 
throat,  such  as  you  allay  by  an  application 
of  jujube,  and  should  spontaneously  and  os- 
tentatiously burst  forth  into  a  loud  "ahem," 
he  can  be  very  severely  dealt  with  under 
section  forty  of  the  Army  Act,  the  afore- 
said cough  "being  prejudicial  to  good  dis- 
cipline." So  you  see  that  any  one  can  be 
shot  at  sunrise  for  blowing  his  nose.  How- 
ever, I  carried  on  with  the  C.  O.  Co'y's 
work  for  two  days,  and  of  course  being 
away  first  at  Bordon  then  Aldershot  was 
not  in  touch  very  well.    Then  we  are  being 

[59]: 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


equipped  to  go  to  the  front  and  are  chang- 
ing old  things  for  new,  and  as  the  C.  O.  Co'y 
is  responsible  (not  me)  for  everything, 
there  is  a  lot  of  checking  of  figures.  How- 
ever, I  am  managing  very  well  so  far  and 
haven't  done  anything  I  shouldn't  have. 
Then  to-day  when  I  was  in  seeing  the 
Major  he  told  me  I  was  to  have  No.  i 
Platoon.  That  perhaps  doesn't  convey 
much  to  you,  but  it  is  just  this:  No.  i 
platoon  is  the  extreme  right  one  when  the 
battalion  is  in  battle  and  therefore  its  flank 
is  quite  important.  That  is  certainly  a 
promotion,  in  its  way  I  mean,  for  unless  I 
was  fitted  to  have  command  of  it  I  wouldn't 
get  it.  It  is  quite  an  important  spot  and 
D.S.O.'s  are  usually  won  there,  altho'  I'm 
not  figuring  on  one.  In  answer  to  your  en- 
quiry as  to  whether  all  officers  above  me  on 
the  list  were  senior,  "yes."  But  three  offi- 
cers above  me  are  being  left  here,  which' 
makes  me  fourth  senior  lieutenant  in  the 

battalion.    As  for  any  notice  in  the  

papers,  the  place  is  about  200  souls,  and 
anyway  one  battalion  more  or  less  doesn't 
I60] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


matter  very  much  here.  A  battalion  is  such 
an  infinitesimal  affair  in  this  war,  so  I  im- 
agine the  only  place  you'll  ever  find  any- 
thing about  us  will  be  Canadian  papers. 

I  was  up  in  an  aeroplane  last  week  with 
the  O.  C.  Headquarters  Flight  at  the  Royal 
Flying  School,  Aldershot,  and  enjoyed  the 
experience  very  much.  We  went  up  about 
2,000  feet  and  I  imagine  I  should  enjoy 
being  an  airman.  There  were  no  sensations 
except  a  violent  desire  to  hang  on,  a  sinking 
sensation  at  the  stomach  when  we  volplaned 
and  a  violent  desire  to  get  down  where  the 
air  didn't  bite  one's  face  and  chill  you  to 
the  marrow.  There  was  a  slight  rocking 
which  tended  to  produce  mal  de  mer,  or  I 
suppose  I  should  mal  de  air,  but  when  one 
is  hopping  along  anywhere  from  fifty  miles 
to  eighty  miles  an  hour  you've  really  no 
time  to  be  ill ;  in  fact,  all  I  did  was  to  hang 
on,  and  just  between  you,  me  dear  old  Maw, 
and  myself,  (and  don't  tell  a  soul)  I  wished 
most  of  the  time  that  I'd  never  gone  up. 
But  then  that  is  like  the  Catholic  confes- 

[61] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


sional,  strictly  confidential,  and  not  to  be 
mentioned  to  a  soul. 

I  spent  Saturday  and  Sunday  in  London 
en  route  from  Aldershot  and  went  in  a 
pouring  rain  to  Westminster  Abbey.  Oh, 
dear,  there  is  something  about  that  spot  that 
really  is  the  story  of  the  Empire  in  a  vest 
pocket  edition  that  grips  me.  I  sat  Sunday 
in  the  north  transept  and  heard  the  swelling 
(I  think  souls  is  the  best  word  for  they  in- 
duce tears  in  me  almost)  souls  of  that  glori- 
ous organ  and  listened  to  The  Recessional. 
I  heard  them  once  again,  sitting  beside  the 
monuments  and  statuary  erected  to  Britain's 
heroes,  and  oh,  do  you  know,  dear,  I  felt 
the  little  wish  creep  in  that  some  day  my 
name  might  go  down  to  posterity  in  those 
magnificent  aisles.  I  was  so  close  I  could 
touch  the  statue,  "Erected  by  the  order  of 
King  and  Parliament  as  a  testimonial  to 
William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  during 
whose  administration,  in  the  reigns  of 
George  II.  and  George  III.,  Great  Britain 
was  exalted  to  a  greater  degree  and  glory 
than  in  any  other  period;"  those,  if  mem- 
[62] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ory  serves  aright,  are  the  actual  words  of 
the  inscription,  and,  as  I  say,  unbidden  came 
the  desire  that  one  day  I  might  prove 
worthy  of  a  wee  small  honour  from  my  own 
native  land,  for,  and  to  which,  I  am  con- 
tinually longing.  It's  all  right  to  say  it's 
cold,  but  then  suddenly  take  away  from  one 
all  the  things  that  have  surrounded  you 
since  childhood,  suddenly  remove  all  the 
environment  that  has  encircled  your  very 
being  and  you  cannot  help  but  feel  the  lack. 
I  miss  the  snow,  the  crunch,  crunch  of  it 
under  marching  feet,  the  glisten  of  it  in  the 
sunshine  and  the  glint  of  it  under  the  arc 
lights  at  night.  I  miss  the  wind  that  stung 
the  face  and  the  cold  that  pulsated  the 
blood,  and  most  of  all  the  air,  the  free, 
clean,  sunshiny  un-misty  air  of  the  west; 
and  while  I  love  England  I  wouldn't  trade 
one  day  of  Western  Canadian  climate  with 
all  its  wintry  rigours  for  a  whole  winter 
here.  Tho'  I  sometimes  cursed  a  winter 
there  I  now  ask  pardon  and  plead  my  ig- 
norance as  an  excuse,  for  snow  is  immeasur- 

[63] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ably  better  than  the  same  depth  of  gooey 
mud. 

We  expect  to  leave  sometime  between 
February  twenty-third  and  March  first,  but 
will  be  in  France  for  some  time  ere  going 
actually  into  the  mess,  so  don't  figure  I'm 
in  it  as  soon  as  these  dates  occur. 

You  know,  my  dear,  that  it's  all  very  well 
to  talk  about  writing  to  this  one  and  that 
one,  but  I  never  get  a  chance  to  start  a  letter 
till  8.30  p.m.,  then  it's  usually  10.30  before 
it's  finished,  and  I  owe  a  dozen  to  different 
people.  If  I  find  time  I'll  write,  but  really 
some  nights  I'm  so  tired  I  can't,  so  they'll 
have  to  understand.    Love  to  all. 

Billy. 


February  I  J,  IQl6. 
My  Dear  Mother, — 

Your  second  letter  written  from  Toronto 
reached  me  this  morning.  As  I  wrote  you 
earlier  in  the  week  we  are  in  the  throes  of 
departure  and  Sunday  is  no  exception.  Ten 
officers  and  a  number  of  men  have  been 
[64I 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


away  all  day  firing  at  the  Rifle  Ranges,  and 
this  morning  in  front  of  our  mess  the  Ma- 
chine Gun  class  was  busy  rattling  away. 
As  I  tell  you,  that's  about  all  there  is  to 
think  about.  One  grows  so  narrow-minded 
in  this  business  unless  you  eat,  sleep,  breathe 
and  perspire  war,  its  ethics,  science  and  the 
practical  application  of  these,  you  might 
just  as  well  quit,  and  our  Colonel  doesn't 
give  one  much  chance  to  do  anything  but 
absorb  warfare.  As  I  told  you,  we  are  in 
the  throes  of  departure,  and  I  am  told  un- 
officially that  the  Brigade  sails  on  the 

for  France.  You  will  not  of  course  receive 
this  till  after  we've  arrived  there. 

The  weather  here  has  improved  quite 
noticeably  lately.  The  days  have  been 
warm  and  bright,  always  for  a  few  hours  in 
the  middle  the  sun  coming  out  and  caress- 
ing us  and  the  landscape,  so  that  it  makes 
life  a  little  more  bearable.  There  is  just  a 
touch  of  spring  in  the  air,  the  buds  bursting 
on  the  trees,  and  this  afternoon  I  saw  sev- 
eral pussy  willows  and  some  snow  drops 
out  in  bloom.    Five  of  us  went  for  a  long 

[65], 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


horseback  ride  this  afternoon,  the  first  horse 
I've  been  on  since  I  left  the  farm,  and  a 
rough  gaited  bird  it  was.  She  had  a  sort 
of  self-starting  six-cylinder  action  in  her 
rear  elevation  and  bumped  along,  also  I 
bumped  along  with  her  greatly  to  the  detri- 
ment, I  fear,  of  certain  portions  of  my 
anatomy,  and  I  fear  me  also  I'm  going  to 
be  "rawther  stiff"  in  the  morning,  as  I  cer- 
tainly can  class  my  middle  parts  as  being 
sore  right  now.  However,  I  enjoyed  my- 
self thoroughly  for  two  or  three  hours,  and 
laughed  myself  sick  at  one  of  the  boys  who 
doesn't  ride  very  well,  who  had  the  wildest 
horse  in  the  bunch  and  who  certainly  had  a 
really  rough  time ;  for  as  soon  as  we  started 
for  home  she  refused  to  do  anything  but  go, 
and  of  course  all  the  rest  of  them  also  in- 
sisted, and  when  his  bird  heard  the  others 
behind,  she  legged  it  faster  and  faster.  We 
crashed  along  for  about  seven  miles  through 
narrow  lanes  and  tiny  villages,  and  very 
Gilpinlike  I  can  assure  you.  Dougal,  the 
chap  I  speak  of,  lost  his  cap  and  none  of  us 
could  turn  our  horses  to  get  it.  So  as  we 
[66] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


must  always  pay  for  our  good  times,  I  fully 
expect  to  pay  for  mine  to-morrow. 

I  had  rather  an  unique  experience  the 
other  day  which  I  want  to  tell  you  about. 
Every  one  who  hailed  from  this  insular 
kingdom,  in  Canada  was  wont  to  complain 
in  my  ear  of  the  slowness  of  barbers  over 
there  and  always  related  how  much  faster 
the  tonsorial  artists  of  Britain  pushed  in 
your  whiskers.  I  also  have  been  told  the 
same  thing  since  my  arrival  and  I've  proven 
to  myself  the  why  and  wherefore  of  it. 
Having  to  go  up  to  London  one  day  this 
week  to  the  Record  Office,  I  slept  in  and 
missed  my  usual  shave  before  hiking  three 
miles  to  the  train,  so  upon  my  arrival  there 
proceeded  to  buy  a  shave,  something  I 
haven't  done  for  months,  I  nearly  can  say 
years.  So  seeing  a  sign,  "Ladies  and  Gentle- 
men's Hair  Dressing  Saloon,"I  proceeded 
therein.  Well,  a  bald-headed  person  of 
doubtful  antecedents,  judging  from  his 
physiognomy,  motioned  me  into  a  chair. 
Not  a  white  enamel  becushioned  one  with 
a  neck  rest  and  numerous  levers,  but  a  plain- 

[67] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


red  plush,  one  showing  unmistakably  that 
other  thousands  had  sat  on  the  same  seat.  It 
was  just  the  same  type  as  the  C.  P.  R.  or  any 
R.  R.  in  Canada  issues  to  their  hard  worked 
station  agents.  Well,  I  sat  me  down,  not 
without  some  misgivings,  and,  grasping  "me 
noble  countenance,"  he  tilted  my  head  rear- 
ward until  I  felt  as  tho'  I  were  one  of  those 
contortionist  acts  at  a  vaudeville  show.  He 
smeared  my  face  with  lather  and  proceeded 
to  scrape  the  protruding  hairs  off.  I  say 
scrape  advisedly,  for  it  was  a  process  greatly 
resembling  a  man  with  a  snow  shovel  re- 
moving the  accumulation  of  last  week's 
snow  from  the  sidewalk.  He  didn't  take 
long,  I'll  admit,  and  well  he  might  do  it  in 
short  time.  Every  time  he  let  go  of  my 
head  I  endeavoured  to  raise  it,  but,  some- 
way, he  always  beat  me  to  it  and  grabbed 
it  again  ere  I  could  sufficiently  stretch  the 
muscles  to  erase  the  crick  in  it.  He  surely 
was  active  and  I  took  a  keen  delight  in  see- 
ing if  I  couldn't  beat  him  to  it.  Albeit  I 
must  confess  he  came  off  best.  Of  course 
he  was  doing  it  every  day  and  it  was  my 
[68] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


first  game  and  I  didn't  even  have  beginner's 
luck.  Well,  having  removed  some  hair  and 
the  outer  tissue  of  epidermis,  he  smeared  a 
solution  of  nitric  acid  and  chloride  of  lime 
and  assisted  me  to  elevate  my  head  to  a  nor- 
mal position,  and,  whisking  off  the  apron, 
by  gestures  suggested  I  arise.  I  did  so  with 
face  smarting  and  neck  stiff  and  cricked  be- 
yond straightening,  I  felt  sure.  Upon  a 
close  examination  which  I  made  after  a 
hurried  exit  and  fervent  prayer  of  thanks- 
giving, I  found  tiny  tufts  of  whisker  still 
there  and  decided  that  the  reason  they  do  it 
quicker  is,  first,  because  they  don't  do  it, 
and,  second,  if  they  took  any  longer  they 
would  permanently  dislocate  their  cus- 
tomers' necks ;  so  I  readily  understand  why 
there  are  fewer  barber  shops  and  why  every 
Englishman  always  carries  a  set  of  razors. 
Anyway  I  certainly  prefer  mine  own  Gil- 
lette. 

I've  just  paused  a  minute  to  listen  to  the 
mess  gramophone  blare  out  "The  Veteran's 
Song."  A  glorious  baritone  sang  it  and  as 
he  came  to  the  lines,  "Thank  God  when  the 

[69] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


young  lads  falter  we  still  have  the  brave  old 
boys,"  I  just  wondered  if,  when  the  crucial 
moment  came,  I  would  falter.  Of  course, 
dear,  I  can't  falter,  there  are  no  more  old 
boys  left  and  so  we  young  lads  must  do  our 
best.  And  oh,  dear,  while  I  know  it's  not 
in  your  heart  I  feel  sure  that  you  wouldn't 
want  me  to  falter,  and,  somehow,  on  the  eve 
of  our  departure  we  all  have  sobered  down 
a  bit.  At  first  at  the  news  every  one  was 
gleeful,  but  we  are  quieter  now.  Things 
have  assumed  their  right  aspect.  We  all 
realise  that  it  isn't  a  picnic  we're  setting  out 
for  and  so  we've  adjusted  our  outlook  and 
toned  down  our  gaiety.  Not  noticeably, 
perhaps,  to  an  outsider,  but  every  now  and 
then  you'll  find  one  or  two  sitting  quietly 
and  a  wistful  look  in  their  eye.  There  isn't 
the  laugh  and  the  jest  that  for  months  has 
been  usual,  and  so  we  go  away  over  to 
France. 

Now,  my  dear,  there  isn't  much  or  in  fact 

anything  more  to  say,  except  I  don't  want 

you  to  worry.     I  know,  Mother  o'  mine, 

that's  a  useless  order  to  give  you,  but  I 

[70] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


surely  mean  it.  You  know  we  all  are  in- 
tending to  come  back  and  I  grow  every  day 
more  or  less  a  fatalist.  So  don't  worry,  I'll 
come  home  one  of  these  days  and  oh,  how 
glad  I'll  be,  dear,  to  fold  you  in  my  arms 
and  hear  you  call  me  Willie.  So,  dear, 
don't  fear  for  me.  Your  God  and  mine 
whom  I  know  you  trust,  is  just  as  present 
there  as  in  the  quiet  solitude  of  your  bed- 
room, and  if  perchance  He  wills  that  I  go 
out,  well,  dear,  it's  just  one  more  sorrow 
heaped  on  your  willing  shoulders,  one  more 
pain  to  your  silver  locks.  But  as  the  days 
go  on  more  and  more  forcibly  is  borne  home 
the  fact  that  up  there  beyond  the  Gates  of 
Pearl  there  is  one  Omnipresent,  and  He 
will  watch  o'er  me  as  he  has  done  over  mil- 
lions of  other  sons. 

Good-bye,  dearie.  The  last  good-bye  for 
a  time  at  least.  I'll  write  you  from  France. 
Good-bye  and  God  bless  and  keeo  you  safe 
for  my  return.  BlLLy 

Love  to  all  with  heaps  to  Auntie  and 
Uncle  when  you  write. 

[7i] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


We've  left  the  lights  of  London 
And  the  dreary  rain  of  Hants, 
For  we're  slowly  steaming  outward 
"Over  there"  to  France. 

The  while  I  watch  the  choppy  waves 
And  taste  the  salty  foam, 
My  thoughts  are  ever  speeding 
To  Canada  and  Home. 

I  wonder,  be  there  thought  waves 
Or  static  in  the  air 
To  shoot  the  thoughts  I'm  thinking 
To  my  dear  ones  "Over  there." 

For  "Over  there"  is  two  spots, 
One  is  Flanders,  damp  and  low, 
While  the  other  place  is  Canada, 
My  "Lady  of  the  Snow." 

And  tho'  my  thoughts  always  are  split 
Betwixt  the  one  and  t'other, 
I  think  to-night  they're  turning  most 
To  Canada  and  Mother. 

Crossing  the  Channel  as  the  lights  of  Folkestone  died 
into  black  and  Boulogne  grew  brighter. 

Billy. 
[72]; 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Somewhere, 
February  26,  IQl6. 
My  Dear  Mother, — 

Well,  we  arrived  "somewhere,"  and  are 
billeted,  some  miles  at  the  rear  of  the  actual 
firing  line  where  the  boom  of  guns  comes 
to  us  ever  and  anon.  So  we  are  actually  in 
the  ring  side  seats  of  the  big  fight  and  soon 
will,  I  suppose,  be  actually  in  the  ring. 

The  trip  here  was  very  interesting,  but 
I'm  not  allowed  to  mention  anything  about 
it  so  will  have  to  tell  you  when  I  get  back. 
However,  I  can  tell  you  that  I  had  my  wish 
about  the  snow,  for  we  landed  in  the  midst 
of  a  soft  melting  snow  storm  which  has  kept 
up  intermittently  ever  since.  The  whole 
country  is  covered  about  a  foot  thick  with 
soft  snow  and  the  roads  frozen  hard,  mak- 
ing walking  and  transport  difficult.  In  fact, 
the  weather  has  been  very  cold  and  almost 
like  Canadian  winter,  as  the  cold  seems  to 
go  clean  through.  However,  the  men  and 
all  of  us  are  happy  and  that  counts  a  lot. 
I've  just  thought  all  day  what  a  complex 
thing  is  human  nature.    We  arrived  here, 

[73] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


as  I  told  you,  in  a  blinding  snow  storm  and 
after  a  twelve  to  fifteen  mile  march,  finally- 
got  into  the  barns,  where  we  are  billeted, 
about  eight  o'clock  at  night,  cold,  horribly 
hungry  and  wet  through,  every  man  sore 
and  grouchy,  railing  against  the  officers  and 
any  one  else  on  whom  he  could  vent  his 
spleen.  It  wasn't  an  easy  day  and  I,  too, 
was  dead  tired,  but  next  morning  in  the 
clear  cold  air  we  had  changed  completely. 
Everything  looked  rosy  and  in  the  midst  of 
it  all  here  and  there  a  song  or  a  cheery 
whistle,  and  after  a  good  warm  meal  we 
were  as  chirpy  as  sparrows.  Indeed,  a  con- 
trast from  the  night  before.  Human  nature 
is  indeed  a  funny  thing.  I  went  out  to-day 
to  buy  some  woollen  gloves  and  other  things 
in  a  village  about  two  miles  away  and  I  can 
assure  you  that  National  song  of  ours,  "The 
Maple  Leaf  our  Emblem  Dear"  is  just  as 
fitting  here  as  elsewhere.  They  sure  soak 
one  here  for  anything. 

We  are  quartered  in  a  farm  house,  the 
six  company  officers  in  one  room  of  Flemish 
architecture — great  oaken  beams  across  the 
[74]; 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ceiling  and  a  cold  wind-swept  brick  floor 
and  no  heat.  The  men  in  the  barns  with 
plenty  of  straw  are,  I  believe,  fairly  warm, 
at  least  I  hope  warmer  than  we  are.  The 
glass  is  out  of  our  window  and  the  wind 
"she's  blow  de  herrieane"  across  the  floor, 
wafting  in  all  the  varied  odours  of  the  farm 
yard.  However,  it  must  be  worse  in  the 
trenches  and  every  cloud  has  its  silver  lin- 
ing. But  it's  some  miserable  in  the  morning, 
arising  and  shaving  and  washing  at  a  pump 
with  a  foot  of  snow  on  the  ground. 

They  say  that  to  be  a  really  good  fighter 
a  man  must  feel  a  personal  animosity  against 
his  adversary.  Well,  I  feel  certain  that  if 
old  Kaiser  Bill  could  suddenly  appear  some 
morning  when  I  hop  out  of  blankets  and 
with  goose  flesh  over  "me  noble  frame," 
shiver  and  swear,  he'd  find  in  me  a  foeman 
worthy  of  his  steel ;  and  I  think  as  the  hard- 
ships (which  really  aren't  so  awfully  hard) 
grow  worse,  we  all  acquire  that  spirit  of 
animosity.  The  men,  too,  are  not  at  all  slow 
at  expressing  their  opinion  about  the  enemy, 

[751 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


and  they  seem  to  be  ready  to  fight,  so  I  guess 
we  will  give  a  good  account  of  ourselves. 

Everything  is  strange  and  new  over  here. 
The  very  ground  we  walk  on  was  the  scene 
of  fierce  fighting  early  in  the  war.  The 
fields,  however,  are  all  ploughed  and  crops 
in,  in  fact  "busy  as  usual"  is  the  motto,  pigs, 
cows,  etc.,  chewing  away,  not  even  moving 
their  ears.  The  buildings,  however,  bear 
mute  testimony  that  there  is  a  war  on,  and 
in  the  fields  here  and  there  are  the  remains 
of  wire  entanglements.  I  picked  up  a  rusty 
old  brass  casing  of  a  shell,  while  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  away  a  tiny  forest  of  crosses 
mark  the  graves  of  some  English  soldiers, 
and  not  far  distant  is  a  bog  where,  I'm  told, 
the  Princess  Pats  were  first  cut  up  a  year 
ago. 

It  is  all  war  over  here.  Every  breath  you 
draw  seems  to  charge  your  blood  with  a 
desire  to  get  into  it,  and  it's  truly  surprising 
how  one  actually  feels  no  qualms  about  go- 
ing into  the  trenches.  So  far  I  haven't  felt 
the  slightest  tinge  of  fear,  but  of  course  I 
don't  know  exactly  how  I'll  act  when  the 
{7V 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


crucial  moment  arrives;  but  I've  practised 
control  of  myself  in  preparation  for  it  and 
I  guess  that's  about  all  it  amounts  to,  self- 
control.  Our  first  touch  of  the  real  thing 
was  a  hospital  train  we  passed  filled  with 
the  wounded  and  seeing  motor  ambulances 
flying  along  the  road  to  and  from  the  firing 
line.  Occasionally  a  stretcher  with  a  ban- 
daged figure  on  it,  and  once  a  body  lying  on 
the  roadside,  probably  a  real  casualty.  It's 
very  hard  writing,  every  one  is  talking  and 
I  can't  seem  to  collect  my  thoughts,  also  it 
is  some  cold.  I'm  using  a  lone  candle  so  I 
think  I've  written  enough.  Excuse  paper 
which  is  out  of  my  message  book  and  also 
the  carbon  copies,  but  I'm  writing  the  same 

letter  to  the  little  girlie  in ,  and  I  know 

you'll  excuse  me.  I'll  try  to  write  you  a 
letter  again  as  soon  as  possible  and  try  to  do 
so  regularly. 

Remember  me  to  every  one  and  send  love 

to  the .    Heaps  of  love  and  millions  of 

thoughts  of  you  and  home. 
Good-bye. 

Billy. 
[77] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Somewhere, 

February  28,  IQl6. 
Dear  Mother, — 

Just  a  few  lines  to  enclose  some  docu- 
ments, one  a  joint  agreement  for  the  Bank 
which  please  forward  direct,  also  receipt 
for  goods  stored  at  Thomas  Cook  &  Sons. 
There  is  really  nothing  much  there,  and  I 
cannot  think  it  would  be  worth  while  to 
send  for  them  from  Canada,  as  there  is 
nothing  of  any  great  value.  However,  here 
is  the  receipt. 

Well,  dear,  the  most  important  news  I 
have  to  tell  you  is  that  we  move  up  into  the 
fight  to-morrow  and  will  be  in  the  ring  for 
a  starter  for  ten  days  or  so.  Just  to  get  our 
baptism  of  fire,  as  it  were. 

I  received  your  two  letters,  the  last  dated 
14th  inst.,  and  you  seem  worried  re  the 
Christmas  parcel.  I  got  it  O.K.  and  ac- 
knowledged it  the  same  day.  I  think,  if 
memory  serves  me  aright,  the  night  before 
I  went  to  London.  In  fact  I'm  sure  it  was 
that  night,  as  I  gave  the  letters  to  my  man 
to  post  and  will  ask  him  re  them.  As  for 
[78] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


others,  well,  previous  letters  will  have  an* 
swered  your  queries. 

I'm  at  present  engaged  in  studying  gas 
and  how  to  combat  it,  and  it's  very  interest- 
ing work.  I  have  to  walk  each  morning 
about  six  miles,  and  this  morning  as  I 
walked  along  I  couldn't  help  thinking  how 
peaceful  everything  looked.  Bright,  warm 
sunshine,  glistening  down  on  the  snow,  birds 
twittering,  quaint  old  houses  with  cheery 
children  running  about  and  wee  wisps  of 
smoke  curling  out  of  the  chimneys ;  in  fact 
the  landscape  might  have  been  a  water 
colour  of  any  country,  so  peaceful  did  it 
look.  One  would  scarce  believe  that  a  short 
twelve  to  fifteen  months  ago  this  whole  area 
was  the  scene  of  actual  fighting,  nor  yet 
realise  that  less  than  a  score  of  miles  away 
the  greatest  battles  of  all  time  are  being 
waged.  Indeed,  if  it  weren't  for  two  things 
and  you  could  suddenly  transplant  some  one 
from  a  foreign  land  here,  I  feel  sure  it 
would  be  hard  to  convince  them  of  their 
whereabouts.  Two  things,  however,  give 
away  the  ending  to  the  story;  first,  ever  and 

[79] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


anon  rumbles  over  the  land  the  reverbera- 
tions of  the  guns,  sometimes  short,  staccato 
sounds,  again  long  crashing  rolls  ending  in 
a  sort  of  roar,  and  then,  on  the  pave  roads, 
a  never  ending  line  of  transport  waggons 
either  bearing  up  munitions  and  coming 
back  empty,  or  Red  Cross  motor  ambu- 
lances going  empty  and  coming  back  loaded. 
Nearly  all  the  work  is  done  by  mechanical 
transport  (motor  lorries)  which  rattle  and 
bump  along  at  a  great  rate,  spraying  rather 
than  splashing  mud  on  you,  while  now  and 
then  a  despatch  rider  clad  in  khaki  oilskins 
hurtles  by  on  a  motor  cycle,  or  a  long  line 
of  the  famous  two-decker  London  busses, 
all  painted  war  office  grey,  crawl  along, 
sometimes  loaded  just  as  heavily  as  ever 
they  were  on  the  Strand  or  Regent  St.  But 
every  passenger  is  now  a  non-paying  one 
and  there  is  no  difference  in  style,  all  in 
"marching  order."  And  speaking  of  march- 
ing order  reminds  me  that  I  was  in  an 
"estaminet"  or  Cafe  to-day,  and  there  was 
a  chubby  gamin  of  about  four  marching  to 
and  fro  with  a  water  bottle  and  mess  tin 
[80] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


strung  from  his  shoulders  and  over  his  left 
one  a  long  poker,  and  would  you  believe 
me,  as  we  entered  he  came  to  the  "present" 
with  his  poker,  then  calmly  strode  back  and 
forth  as  if  on  sentry  go.  And  this  almost 
within  range  of  the  big  guns.  The  passive 
bearing  and  positive  equanimity  of  these 
villagers  also  seem  beyond  one's  ken.  Busi- 
ness as  usual  is  evidently  their  slogan  and 
they  certainly  lose  no  opportunity  to  carry 
on  any  kind  of  bargain.  As  an  example,  the 
urchin,  whose  home  is  where  we  billet,  ap- 
peared yesterday  with  one  of  our  cap  badges 
on,  and  fearing  mayhap  that  kleptomania 
was  developing  and  feeling  that  keenly  in 
one  so  young,  I  questioned  him  (for  all  the 
kids  have  a  smattering  of  "Anglais")  as  to 
whence  it  came.  Promptly  came  the  an- 
swer "two  eggs,"  "Eengleesh  soldier,"  so 
you  see  the  French  are  just  as  thrifty  as 
ever.  In  fact,  more  so,  I  fancy,  as  every 
second  house  has  been  turned  into  one  of 
these  estaminets.  It  is  possible  to  purchase 
anything  eatable  from  packages  of  Quaker 
Oats  to  Heinz's  Pork  and  Beans,  and  drink- 

[81] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


able  from  beer  to  champagne,  excluding 
spirits  like  whiskey  or  brandy.  As  far  as 
eats  are  concerned  no  one  needs  anything 
staple  anyway  for  we  eat  like  fighting  cocks. 
Meat,  some  fresh,  some  bully  beef,  bread 
or  hard  tack,  potatoes  and  one  other  vege- 
table, bacon  for  breakfast,  jam,  tea,  rice, 
cheese,  condensed  milk  and  plenty  of  it. 
The  meat  is  usually  beef,  but  alternated 
with  mutton,  and  our  Company  Com- 
mander, who  is  an  old  British  army  officer, 
says  this  is  a  picnic.  Not  knowing  cannot 
say,  but  while  there  are  some  discomforts 
they  are  absolutely  nothing  to  what  I  ex- 
pected and  we  are  all  happy  as  kings.  Of 
course  I'm  usually  happy,  but  I  find  myself 
breaking  into  song  every  now  and  then  just 
for  sheer  joy.  That  is,  I  suppose,  a  rather 
queer  idea  to  any  one  who  at  a  distance 
views  the  situation,  but  such  is  the  case. 

I  cannot  recall  to  memory  all  the  queer 
things  that  have  happened,  as  you  may  im- 
agine, but  it  certainly  is  a  very  funny  ex- 
pedition. My  French  at  the  best  is  none 
too  healthy,  being  rather  pale  and  coming 
[82] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


under  the  heading  anaemic,  so  I've  had 
some  queer  times  making  myself  under- 
stood. In  the  first  place  through  which  we 
marched  several  gamins  crowded  along  be- 
side us  crying  "Beeskit,  Beeskit,"  and  I 
racked  my  brain  for  all  French  salutations 
and  forms  of  greeting,  but  nothing  seemed 
to  fit,  and  finally  a  little  older  boy  said 
"souveneer,"  and  I  tumbled.  He  wanted  a 
biscuit  like  we  eat.  Hard  tack,  in  other 
words.  It  may  seem  easy  when  it's  spelled 
out,  but  when  a  dirty  faced  youngster  grabs 
your  thumb  and  adds  his  weight  to  the 
already  enormous  tonnage  which  you're 
carrying,  your  powers  of  understanding 
cease  and  your  perspective  rather  clouds. 

Well,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  there  is 
much  more  to  tell,  but  will  write  from  our 
new  quarters  next  week. 

Love  to  all. 

Billy. 


[83I 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Somewhere, 

March  6,  IQl6. 
Dear  Mother,— 

Your  letter  dated  February  15  arrived 
to-day  and  finds  me  in  hospital  where  I've 
been  for  five  days.  Nothing  serious  but  a 
nasty  attack  of  "toenail"  poisoning  from 
eating  something  too  near  the  side  of  a  tin. 
It  occurred  a  week  to-day,  just  before  we 
moved  down  to  Brigade  reserve  about  two 
miles  from  the  firing  line.  I  had  nothing 
to  eat  for  two  days,  that  is,  could  eat  noth- 
ing, and  suffered  from  acute  diarrhoea  and 
then  did  thirteen  miles  in  marching  order 
to  here,  which  was  more  or  less  of  a  "via 
dolorosa"  for  me,  and  when  I  arrived  was 
glad  to  lay  me  down  in  a  dugout  which 
leaked.  Next  morning  the  Colonel  and 
Medical  Officer  insisted  upon  me  going  into 
hospital,  much  against  my  will,  for  the  bat- 
talion moved  up  to  the  firing  line,  for  its 
first  time  that  night.  It  was  a  bitter  dis- 
appointment to  your  "only  only"  for,  dear, 
after  one  has  laboured  for  months  studying 
and  instructing  his  men,  and  when  the  cli- 
[84] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


max  comes  and  all  his  work  is  to  be  put  into 
actual  practice,  it  comes  hard  to  lie  down 
and  feel  that  he  is  not  to  have  a  part  in  it. 
However,  here  I  am,  hoping  to  get  out  to- 
day and  go  in  the  line  for  four  days  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  I'm  feeling  much  better, 
thank  you,  and  considerably  stronger.  I 
think  I  would  have  been  jake  but  for  that 
march  over  the  pave  roads  which  aggra- 
vated the  case  considerably.  Of  those  roads 
more  anon. 

Well,  dear,  here  we  are,  as  I  say,  a  scant 
two  miles  from  the  first  line  trenches  and 
even  here  one  is  scarce  able  to  realise  that 
there  is  a  war.  For  instance  this  morning, 
to  look  out  of  the  window  the  sun  is  shining 
and  birds  singing.  Here  and  there  a  touch 
of  snow  glistening  amongst  the  green  of  the 
fields  or  fast  being  dyed  by  the  mud  of  the 
roads,  and  not  a  sound  of  war  penetrates  the 
walls  of  the  hospital.  Except  for  khaki 
moving  around  from  the  window  view 
nothing  denotes  war  at  all.  Of  course  it  is 
not  always  like  that  and  there  was  a  noisome 
bombardment  the  first  few  nights.    In  fact 

[85] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


the  first  night  when  I  lay  in  the  dugout  it 
seemed  to  never  cease.  Battery  after  bat- 
tery rumbled  on  and  only  a  few  hundred 
yards  away  one  of  the  real  big  guns  thun- 
dered occasionally.  All  this  noise  punctuat- 
ing, as  it  were,  the  tinny  notes  of  a  piano 
grinding  out  a  blare  of  ragtime  from  a 
Y.M.C.A.  hut,  the  while  motor  trucks  tat- 
tooed by  on  a  road  as  it  were  beating  time 
for  the  piano.  Incongruous,  well  I  should 
say  so.  It  certainly,  to  one  who  hasn't  seen 
it,  must  seem  inexplicable.  And  yet  it 
exists  not  only  here  as  an  isolated  example 
but  all  up  and  down  the  line.  How  truly 
remarkable  are  modern  conditions! 

The  hospital  is  run  by  a  field  ambulance 
and  is  a  large  building  of  four  stories  with 
a  dozen  smaller  ones  around  it.  Prior  to 
the  war  it  was  a  convent  and  school  and  still 
the  patient  nuns  work  here.  Black  robed 
and  smiling  they  go  about  their  duties  look- 
ing after  Belgian  refugees,  doing  washing 
for  the  soldiers  and  running  a  small  hospice 
where  officers  can  get  a  meal.  I  haven't  had 
one,  but  the  boys  tell  me  they  are  great. 
[86] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Fried  chicken,  cauliflower  and  pie.  Pie  I 
said.  Imagine  pie.  To  me  that  over- 
shadows the  fact  that  they  serve  with  each 
meal  a  pint  of  champagne.  Yes,  there  cer- 
tainly is  a  high  light  over  the  pie.  I  care 
not  what;  custard,  apple,  lemon,  raisin, 
mince,  blueberry  or  cocoanut,  but  I  could 
certainly  cultivate  a  quarter  section  of  pie 
right  now.  "Much  better  this  morning, 
nurse!"  The  place  has  never  been  shelled 
and  in  the  officers'  ward  with  me,  now,  is  a 
Colonel  and  a  Major.  The  Colonel  said  he 
asked  one  of  the  nuns  how  it  came  that  they 
had  never  been  shelled.  She  pointed  to  the 
crucifix  (an  inevitable  symbol  in  every  room 
in  every  house  that  I've  been  in  over  here) 
and  said  "We're  kept  by  the  Grace  of  God," 
and  I  believe  it.  To  think  that  for  nineteen 
months  in  this  maelstrom  of  war  from  every 
quarter,  the  buildings  have  never  been  hit 
and  these  quiet  nuns  have  gone  about  tend- 
ing sick  and  wounded,  daily  holding  their 
matins  and  vespers,  seems  to  me  a  modern 
miracle, 

[87] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


"O,  woman!  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow 
A  ministering  angel  thou! — " 

As  I've  lain  here  the  force  of  those  lines 
comes  home  more  and  more.  You  know 
I've  always  said  a  nurse  had  a  halo  around 
her  head,  well,  here  there's  nothing  but 
males,  mere  male  orderlies,  and  oh,  for  the 
touch  of  woman's  hand.  I  know  that  if 
there  was  a  woman,  were  she  princess  or 
charwoman,  that  your  beef  tea  would  at 
least  be  warm  and  have  salt  in  it,  and  there 
would  be  no  sticky  sediment  in  the  bottom 
of  the  cup.  That,  and  a  hundred  other 
things  I  could  recount,  betoken  the  lack  of 
the  touch  feminine.  However,  I've  no  de- 
sire to  disparage  the  work  of  the  dirty, 
clumsy  hands  which  ministered  unto  me, 
for  they  are  the  boys  who  in  their  turn  go  up 
into  the  line  and  carry  back  the  wounded. 
All  honour  to  them!  But  that  is  just  an 
insistent  little  fact  that  presses  home  quite 
poignantly. 

After  one  has  been  a  gay  and  festive  sub- 
[88] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


altern  in  the  C.  E.  F.  for  ten  months  one 
learns  to  do  a  weird  yet  fascinating  occupa- 
tion known  as  Map  Reading.  It  consists 
of  being  able  to  trace  one's  way  on  an  ord- 
nance map  by  means  of  hieroglyphical 
marks  and  to  know  by  the  manner  in  which 
a  road  is  shown  whether  it  is  a  first  class, 
or  a  second  class,  or  a  third  class,  or  a  fourth 
class  road.  Now,  a  first  class  road  is  sup- 
posed to  be  one,  but  I  think  that  the  first 
class  roads  here  are  the  ones  mentioned  in 
the  epigram  or  proverb,  "The  Road  to  hell, 
etc. ;"  at  least  they  are  hellish  roads.  They 
are  all  pave  roads  and  consist,  first,  of  a  line 
of  Flemish  poplars  on  each  side.  Tall  and 
stately  trees  they  are  and  from  afar  betoken 
a  quiet  shady  highway,  a  dolce  far  niente 
effect,  but,  ye  gods,  what  awful  purgatory 
to  walk  between  those  lovely  trees!  These 
pave  roads  consist  of  small  blocks  (cobble 
stones),  and  I  have  it  for  a  fact  from  a  re- 
spectable source  that  there  was  a  clause  in 
the  contract  which  called  that  no  two  blocks 
be  laid  at  the  same  height  or  angle  in  any 
space  not  exceeding  ten  metres  in  width  by 

[89] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


thirty  metres  in  depth.  So  you  can  readily 
imagine  that  walking  is  anything  but  a 
pleasure.  In  fact,  if  I  were  a  parish  priest 
and  my  worthy  confessees  had  hoofs  like 
mine,  I  could  think  up  no  greater  penance 
than  to  have  them  do  five  miles  twice  a  day 
over  these  roads.  Peas  in  your  shoes  and 
pave  roads  rank  side  by  side.  In  any  event 
thirteen  miles  of  them  was  too  much  for 
"me  noble  hoofs,"  which  at  present  are 
blistered  and  sore.  In  fact  any  time  after 
the  first  five  miles  I  would  willingly  have 
walked  on  anything  soft,  Hampshire  mud, 
a  custard  pie,  six  inches  of  snow  or  an  eider- 
down quilt.  I  certainly  can  never  recom- 
mend a  walking  tour  in  France. 

Well,  dear,  I  can't  tell  you  much  about 
the  trenches  for  I  haven't  been  there  but 
will  doubtless  have  a  few  remarks  about 
them  next  time. 

Received  the  joint  agreement  and  will 
forward  it.  You  can  tear  up  the  one  I  sent 
you. 

Love  to  all. 

Billy. 
[90] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Somewhere  in  France, 

March  17,  1 9 16. 
Dear  Mother, — 

Here  I  am  again  in  hospital.  It  seems 
as  tho'  I  never  get  out  of  the  bally  spot. 
Nothing  serious,  you  know,  just  crocked  up 
with  a  deuce  of  a  cold  and  a  very  sore  heel. 
The  heel  comes  from  endeavouring  to  break 
in  a  new  pair  of  shoes  and  started  with  a 
blister  which,  like  Finney's  Turnip,  grew 
until  the  length,  breadth  and  depth  thereof 
was  something  to  marvel  at,  and  the  pain  in 
keeping  with  the  dimensions.  Talk  about 
exquisite  torture,  but  I  sure  feel  that  the 
methods  of  the  Inquisition  have  nothing  on 
this.  However,  she  is  fast  healing  up  and 
we  will  go  back  to  finish  the  breaking  in 
of  the  new  shoes.  This  breaking  in  stuff  is 
no  joke  and  I  have  not  yet  discovered 
whether  it  consists  in  moulding  the  boot  to 
the  shape  of  your  foot  or  vice  versa,  but  I 
think  it  is  vice  versa. 

Well,  my  dear,  IVe  already  done  a  tour 
or  two  in  the  trenches  and  can  assure  you 
that  they  are  the  only  experiences  IVe  had 

[91] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


that  fail  to  live  up  to  their  reputation. 
Frankly,  they  were  a  keen  disappointment 
to  me  in  every  respect,  altho'  I,  perhaps, 
have  not  had  sufficient  time  to  properly 
sample  them.  There  was  mud  and  water 
to  the  prescribed  quantities  all  right,  but 
things  are  not  so  beastly  uncomfortable  and 
for  forty-eight  hours  I  never  lay  down  or 
was  even  in  a  dugout  owing  to  the  crowded 
condition  of  the  line.  Of  course  one  was 
wet  and  cold,  but  that's  what  weVe  been 
expecting,  and  the  hardships  are  not,  so  far, 
nearly  as  great  as  I  anticipated.  Of  course 
there  was  the  danger  of  getting  bumped  off 
any  time  but  altho'  I'm  sure  at  least  two 
million  shells  and  bullets  sang,  shrieked, 
roared,  rattled,  whistled  (add  here  any  ad- 
jective used  by  war  correspondents,  they  all 
fit)  hurtled  by  and  around,  none  hit  me.  It 
was  rather  terrifying  I'll  admit,  but  some- 
how or  other  there  was  a  distinct  fascina- 
tion about  it.  One's  nerves  certainly  require 
to  be  constructed  on  the  gyroscopic  princi- 
ple, however,  to  stand  the  strain.  But  the 
surprising  thing  was  that  despite  all  in- 
tfe] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


formation  re  accuracy  hardly  one  shell  in 
ten  does  any  damage.  At  least  that  was  the 
impression  I  got,  for  none  of  my  men  were 
hit  and  the  battalion  up  to  the  time  I  was 
brought  here  had  no  casualties  after  ten 
days  in  the  front  line.  Of  course  I  realised 
that  perhaps  the  weather  conditions  were 
not  as  inclement  as  early  in  the  winter,  but 
still  I  really  can  see  no  such  awful  condi- 
tions as  one  pictured  in  their  mind's  eye. 
I  talked  in  England  to  hundreds  of  men 
returned  from  the  front,  and  by  piecing  to- 
gether their  garbled  accounts,  had  a  sort  of 
patchwork  quilt  composition  which  I  chose 
to  call  my  conception  of  the  trenches,  a  sort 
of  pre-impression,  but  I  guess  either  I  was 
a  bad  artist  or  else  the  men  I  talked  to  were 
bad  raconteurs,  for  I  surely  saw  nothing 
like  my  conception  when  we  finally  reached 
the  goal.  While  nothing  is  so  bad  that 
it  might  not  be  worse,  and  the  same  I 
suppose  applies  to  things,  good  conditions 
in  the  firing  line  are  neither  so  good  they 
couldn't  be  better,  nor  yet  so  bad  they 
couldn't  be  worse.     Everything  humanly 

[93] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


possible  is  done  for  the  comfort  of  the  men, 
and  every  dugout  has  a  brazier  with  char- 
coal and  coke  burning  to  get  warm  by,  and 
there  is  food  to  spare.  The  meals  are  not 
of  course  served  table  d'hote,  and  finger 
bowls,  I  believe,  even  in  the  best  battalions, 
have  been  reserved  for  future  use;  but  eat 
you  can,  and  a  little  management  combined 
with  the  aid  of  a  company  cook,  does  won- 
ders at  getting  a  hot  meal.  Always  granted 
that  it  is  discouraging  in  extremis,  also 
provocative  of  much  blasphemy  when 
George  the  cook  is  suddenly  compelled  to 
duck  and  use  as  a  shield  the  dixie  or  pan  on 
which  rested  your  dinner.  Because,  despite 
all  efforts  of  the  A.  S.  C.  and  your  own 
quartermaster  sergeant,  there  is  only  so 
much  for  every  one,  and  when  yours  has  co- 
mingled  with  the  soup  lying  underfoot  it 
neither  adds  zest  to  your  appetite  nor  yet 
improves  the  flavour  of  "Mulligan."  Al- 
beit this  does  not  occur  thrice  a  day  and  we 
usually  are  able  to  say  inwardly,  if  not 
aloud,  "For  what  we  are  about  to  receive." 
Of  course  sleep  is  rather  a  minus  quan- 
[94] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


tity,  particularly  for  officers,  and  it  was 
doubly  so  with  us,  for  I  know  I  felt  at  times 
rather  timid  about  the  small  sector  of  trench 
I  was  responsible  for  and  wanted  to  be  sure 
that  nothing  occurred.  In  any  event  we 
have  not  yet  acquired  the  blase  air  or  non- 
chalant bearing  that  veterans  of  six  months 
carry,  so  I  say  sleep  was  lacking  in  large 
chunks.  I  am  now  recharging  the  cells 
here,  having  lain  dormant  for  two  days,  in 
fact  hibernated,  so  to  speak,  despite  the  fact 
that  out  of  doors  it  is  beautiful  weather. 

Yes,  I  think  that  the  "winter  of  our  dis- 
content" is  gone  for  that  laggard  lover,  Old 
Sol,  has  for  two  days  wooed  Mother  Earth. 
And  what  an  ardent  affair!  None  of  your 
brotherly  pecks  as  kisses,  but  long  warm 
Elinor  Glynny  ones,  so  that  she  is  all  dolled 
up  in  her  spring  sartorial  effect.  Violets, 
snowdrops  and  crocuses  underfoot,  bursting 
buds  and  the  songs  of  mating  birds  over 
head,  a  blue  filmy  haze  rising  from  the 
ground  and  every  now  and  then  a  sleek  grey 
Belgian  hare  scampering  through  the  mid- 
dle distance.    That's  the  picture  that  limns 

[951 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


itself  on  your  brain  as  you  walk  along  the 
road.  Beauty,  beauty  everywhere,  till  one 
wishes  one  had  the  gift  of  a  Turner  to  put 
on  canvas  the  glories  of  this  French  land. 
IVe  just  gloried  in  the  view  from  my  win- 
dow here,  trying  to  forget  that  the  whole 
land  is  given  over  to  war  and  that  one  or 
two  high  explosives  could  dint  the  land- 
scape so  badly  as  to  mar  it  for  sight-seeing 
purposes.  It  seems  indeed  a  shame  that  so 
beautiful  a  part  of  the  world  should  be 
warped  out  of  all  recognition.  This  hos- 
pital or  rest  station  for  officers  is  in  a  beau- 
tiful old  Chateau  placed  on  a  small  hill  in 
a  circular  basin.  Around  the  valley,  as  it 
were,  runs  a  long  arc  of  hills  shutting  off 
the  view  after  five  or  six  miles,  but  in  be- 
tween is  really  beyond  my  poor  pen  to  de- 
scribe. Wonderfully  treed  are  the  imme- 
diate grounds  of  the  Chateau;  Oak,  Flem- 
ish poplar  and  several  trees  of  unknown 
(at  least  to  me)  species,  their  tops  gradually 
blending  into  one  another  till  the  bottom 
of  the  hill  is  reached,  a  sort  of  terraced 
lawn.  Then  the  plain  small  farms  with 
[96] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


their  cluster  of  buildings  around  them,  tiny 
quadrangles  and  triangles  hedged  off  with 
mounds  of  earth  and  sparse  hedgerows 
where  they  grow  their  crops.  Here  and 
there  a  haystack  or  a  terra  cotta  roof  shows 
up,  while  the  smoke  from  a  village  some 
three  miles  away,  veers  upward  just  as 
lazily  as  our  smoke  at  home  does  on  a  lack- 
adaisical day  in  spring.  Everything  over 
here,  dear,  seems  to  move  so  much  slower 
than  at  home.  For  instance,  every  village 
has  its  church  and  spire,  and  every  spire  its 
chimes ;  and  in  place  of  clanging  out  with 
strident  notes  its  quarters,  half  and  hour, 
languorously  the  sounds  float  over  in  deep 
resonant  waves.  Long,  long  seconds  seem 
to  elapse  between  notes,  in  fact  you  count, 
say  ten,  and,  knowing  it's  eleven,  you  figure 
you've  missed  one  at  the  first,  when  "blong!" 
over  comes  the  final  sound.  So  also  the 
windmills.  I've  read  innumerable  stories 
about  the  lazy  Dutch  mills,  and  here  they 
are.  Square,  grey  buildings  with  the  regu- 
lation four  arms  that  turn  slowly  and  rather 
jerkily.    They  always  seem  to  me  as  if  a 

[97] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


tired  man  were  turning  them  at  a  windlass 
inside,  and  when  the  handle  reached  the 
top,  he  got  a  little  more  pressure  on  the 
downward  stroke.  I  may  have  failed  to 
give  you  the  right  idea,  but  it's  here  in  my 
own  brain.  Well,  I  could  go  on  telling  you 
about  this  picturesque  spot  and  describing 
the  beauties  of  the  surrounding  country  in- 
definitely, but  better  stop  here. 

As  I  tell  you,  we  are  quartered  in  this  old 
Chateau — truly  an  old  world  place  if  one 
ever  existed.  Set  upon  this  hill  with  mag- 
nificent grounds  around,  flower  beds,  rhodo- 
dendron bushes,  stately  oaks,  tall  slim  pop- 
lars, deciduous  trees  of  every  kind  arching 
over  long  shaded  walks  which  wind  round 
and  round,  always  coming  back  to  the 
Chateau.  These  walks,  lined  with  secluded 
spots  and  arbours,  where  perchance  lurks  an 
inviting  rustic  bench  or  maybe  a  stone  or 
marble  statue  in  a  variety  of  subjects  from 
Circe  to  Diana  and  Mercury  to  Cupid. 
Then  snuggling  in  the  side  of  the  hill  is  a 
disused  conservatory  with  hundreds  of 
broken  panes  and  a  seemingly  impossible 
[98] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


number  of  flower  pots  whole  or  otherwise; 
and  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  you  and 
your  watering  can  and  a  certain  third  story 
garden  I  know  of.  Anyway  there  are  pots 
enough  here  that  if  filled  would  keep  you 
watering  from  dawn  to  dark.  Adjoining 
this  is  a  very  pretentious  pheasant  house  all 
wired  off  in  pens  and  walks  and  constructed 
of  mortar,  stone  and  wood  like  a  Swiss 
Chalet,  while  stables  and  a  .most  modern 
garage  are  further  on.  As  for  the  house 
itself,  a  quaint  old  spot  with  high  corniced 
ceilings  and  walls  covered  with  tapestry. 
A  large  hall,  dining  room,  lounge,  salon 
and  writing  room  elaborately  decorated, 
and  all  connected  by  wide,  high  glass  doors. 
Beautiful  parquet  floors  of  Spanish  oak. 
The  furniture  is  all  old,  very  old,  some  of 
it  Louis  XIV.  Old  candelabra,  antique 
brassware,  etc.,  fill  every  corner,  while 
paintings,  whose  value  I  know  not,  adorn 
the  walls.  And  to  offset  this  mediaeval  old 
spot,  it  is  lighted  with  both  gas  and  elec- 
tricity and  has  lightning  rods  and  steam 
heat. 

199] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Will  write  again  next  week.    Love  to  all 
with  heaps  for  you. 

Billy. 


Somewhere, 

March  24,  IQl6. 
Dear  Mother- 
As  you  will  see  by  the  heading  I'm  at 
Somewhere.  I  believe  you  may  have  heard 
of  this  place,  but  I  know  that  its  importance 
is  not  known  to  you.  Ask  any  school  boy 
the  principal  city  of  France  and  he'll  say 
Paris,  but  "Somewhere"  has  recently  so  in- 
creased in  population  that  I  believe  it  super- 
sedes gay  Paree  in  importance  to-day.  Of 
course  it  is  young;  less  than  two  years  ago 
it  was  all  peaceful  farming  land  but  to-day 
it  is  a  vast  seething  mass  of  humanity,  its 
thoroughfares  teem  with  motors,  while  o'er 
head  fast  flitting  aeroplanes  act  as  messen- 
gers. It  is,  indeed,  the  most  prominent  spot 
in  the  world  to-day  and  gives  promise. 
Desist,  I  prithee.  It  almost  seems  like  the 
good  old  pre-war  days  when  one  sold  or 
[100] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


bought  lots.  However,  dear,  I  to-day  re- 
ceived your  letters  dated  March  6  and  16th 
and  was  very  glad  to  hear  from  you  as 
usual.  Mail  day  means  a  lot  over  here,  you 
know.  I  also  received  another  letter  earlier 
in  the  week,  the  date  of  which  I've  forgot- 
ten, and  I  think  a  parcel  you  sent  and  some 
letters  have  gone  astray.  But  they'll  turn 
up;  they  always  do.  We've  moved  twice 
since  they  came,  and  I  believe  they  were 
sent  to  hospital  when  I  was  there,  but  just 
as  surely  as  fate  they'll  follow  on  for  the 
Army  P.O.  is  a  wonderful  institution  and 
no  matter  where  or  when  you  move,  within 
a  few  hours  along  comes  your  mail.  For 
instance,  yesterday  we  moved  some  miles 
and  Canadian  mail  is  due  to-day.  No  mat- 
ter where  you  are,  along  she  comes. 

Well,  dear,  as  I  say,  a  letter  is  always 
most  welcome,  for  it's  the  only  link  that 
forges  the  ends  of  "home"  and  "here"  to- 
gether. It's  welcome  whether  it  contains  a 
lot  of  news  or  just  a  little,  because  really  the 
alchemy  of  a  dear  one's  handwriting  causes 
all  the  dross  of  this  war  to  sink,  the  golden 

[ioi] 


A  :SUNJNY  SUBALTERN 


memories  of  home,  happier  times,  friends, 
and,  best  of  all,  love,  to  rise  up ;  and  then 
your  letter  was  so  newsy,  dear,  and  what  a 
coincidence,  the  dream  I  mean.  By  com- 
paring dates  I  think  you'll  find  I  was  lying 
in  hospital  when  you  dreamed  and  every 
few  minutes  over  and  around  flew  aero- 
planes. So  perchance  there  is  something  in 
telepathy  even  more  than  just  a  web  o' 
dreams. 

Well,  dear  one,  I  really  don't  know  much 
to  tell  you,  for  actually  news  is  mighty 
scarce.  You  see  officers  censor  their  own 
letters.  That  is,  we  seal  them  up  and  they 
are  not  liable  to  be  censored  at  the  base. 
We  are  put  on  our  honour  not  to  mention 
anything  of  importance,  and  it  is  left  to  our 
judgment  what  to  tell;  so  really  honour  is 
a  stricter  censor  than  the  much  hated  one  at 
the  base.  However,  we  moved  from  billets 
up  nearer  the  firing  line  and  are  four  miles 
from  the  front  line  trenches,  in  huts  which 
are  more  or  less  shelter-affairs.  If  one 
spoke  about  a  shelter  in  Canada,  I  always 
associated  with  it  at  once  the  Salvation 
[102] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Army,  or  the  Children's  Aid  Society,  or  a 
nearby  doorway  in  a  rainstorm.  Here  a 
shelter  consists  of  some  pieces  of  two  and 
six  surrounded  by  sacking,  with  perhaps  a 
door.  Of  course  it  is  very  healthy  in  dry 
weather  for  all  the  air  you  get  is  filtered 
through  the  sacking.  However,  I  told  you 
that  Old  Sol  was  wooing  Mother  Earth. 
Well,  publish  it  not  in  Gath,  but  they  had 
a  tiff  last  night  and  that  hoary  old  beast 
Winter  called  in  his  (Sol's)  absence.  The 
ground  was  about  an  inch  deep  in  snow  this 
morning  and  the  atmosphere  accordingly, 
and  now  there  is  once  more  six  inches  of 
mud  on  the  roads;  result  being  that  she 
was  "some  chillsome"  at  six  a.m.  when  you 
arose  and  tremblingly  tucked  your  goose- 
fleshy  legs  into  breeches  and  socks  "dewy 
like  the  rose."    C'est  la  vie. 

I  am  sending  you  a  photo  of  the  little 
girlie,  one  of  four  she  sent  me.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  it  is  the  worst  of  the  bunch 
and  really  isn't  much  like  her,  but  she  is  a 
dear  thing,  and  I'm  really  not  horribly 
sentimental.    As  for  your  being  an  in-law, 

[103] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


I  know  you'll  make  just  as  good  a  one  as 
you  do  a  Maw.  Anyway  we'll  try  you  out 
when  I  get  back. 

As  for  that  code,  my  dear,  if  I'm  taken 
prisoner  there's  not  much  you  could  do. 
I'm  afraid  Wilhelm  wouldn't  or  couldn't 
do  anything,  and  I  presume  I  would  be 
given  the  same  treatment  as  the  rest.  Of 
course  food  is  a  necessity,  I'm  told,  and 
Aunt  Elizabeth  could  send  bread  and  stuff 
over.    However,  if  I  am  taken,  which  isn't 

likely,  I'll  misspell thus  ,  if  I 

think  anything  you  could  do  through 
Cousin  Jane  would  be  any  use,  and  if  I  do 
not  receive  the  parcels  sent,  which  by  the 
way  are  a  necessity,  I'll  misspell  recieve  or 
recieved  by  transposing  ei  to  ie;  both  these 
will  get  by  as  natural,  I  should  say,  but 
there  is  a  very  strict  censorship  in  regard  to 
letters  and  they'll  only  let  you  write  two  a 
month,  I  am  told. 

We  are  in  a  part  of  the  line  now  which 
is  a  trifle  more  lively  than  any  we've  been  in 
before.  You  see  over  here  the  aspect  of  the 
war  narrows  down  considerably.    You  are 

[!°4] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


really  only  interested  in  your  actual  front, 
as  it  were,  and  usually  have  enough  to  do 
to  look  after  that.  What  the  Grand  Duke 
Nicholas  is  doing,  or  whether  Turkey  has 
been  carved,  or  why  Manitoba  voted  dry, 
doesn't  count.  It's  what  is  Fritz  going  to 
do  next  in  this  few  yards  of  trench  I'm  re- 
sponsible for,  or  I  wonder  if  we'll  move  in 
or  out  to-morrow;  and  one  has  plenty  to  do 
to  see  the  men  fed  and  quartered  and  inspect 
their  feet  and  rifles  twice  a  day  and  see  that 
they  have  their  proper  amount  of  ammuni- 
tion and  an  emergency  ration  uneaten.  You 
see  an  emergency  ration  consists  of  a  pound 
of  hard  tack  or  biscuits,  a  small  tin  of  tea  and 
sugar  and  a  tin  of  corn  beef.  Every  man 
must  always  keep  that,  for  it  is  against  regu- 
lations to  eat  it  except  when  in  dire  straits 
and  on  the  orders  of  a  Company  Com- 
mander. But  once  in  a  while  Tommy  has 
a  gnawing  in  his  eight-cylinder  self-starting 
1 916  model  stomach.  Then  you  see  he  has 
to  report  that  "I've  lost  my  iron  ration,  Sir." 
Of  course  you  ask  where,  and  he  says  that 
some  one  stole  it,  or  the  rats  ran  away  with 

[105] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


the  works,  or  it  fell  in  a  well,  or  a  starving 
aviator  came  down  and  stopped  him,  so  out 
of  the  goodness  of  his  heart  he  gave  him  the 
food.  Almost  any  story  made  up  on  the  in- 
stant goes.  You  berate  him  for  being  care- 
less, knowing  meanwhile  he  ate  it,  then 
proceed  to  apply  through  your  Company 
Commander  to  the  Colonel,  thence  the 
Quarter  Master,  who  indents  on  the  A.  S.  C. 
for  another.  Hurrah  for  the  life  of  a  sol- 
dier! 

As  I  started  to  say,  we  narrow  down  our 
view  here  and  a  perusal  of  Canadian  papers 
re  the  Canadian  Corps  can  tell  more  every 
day  than  we  know.  Anyway  the  general 
opinion  here  seems  to  be  that  the  war  can't 
last  much  longer  than,  say,  next  fall.  The 
Verdun  affair  means  something  and  per- 
haps a  few  last  gasps  like  that  will  see  the 
tag  end  in  sight.  There  is  one  thing  I've 
always  intended  to  confide  in  you  since  we 
arrived  here,  and  that  is  I'm  only  another 
Henry  Ford.  As  a  Peacemaker  I'm  a  frost 
pure  and  simple.  I  say  this  after  unsuccess- 
fully, for  many  nights  in  succession,  en- 
[106] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


deavouring  to  arrange  for  an  eight  hour 
armistice  between  my  left  hip  and  a  board 
floor.  I  started  out  with  the  idea  of  a  per- 
manent peace ;  gradually  felt  I'd  be  satisfied 
with  an  amnesty;  now  an  armistice  is  all  I 
crave.  There  is  one  consolation,  I'll  never 
need  a  luxurious  boudoir  "Apres  la  guerre" 
(you'll  see  my  French  is  quite  fluent,  in 
fact  I  speak  it  just  like  a  — —  Canadian). 
Albeit  a  disused  dog  kennel,  an  abused 
woodshed  or  even  a  dilapidated  windmill 
(Canadian  type),  is  a  perfectly  elegant  spot 
in  which  to  sleep.  Ostermoors,  homo- 
quinge  beds  or  eiderdowns  can  be  classed 
with  Dodo  or  mastodons.  Herewith  a  small 
Encyclopaedia  Soldierannica: — 

Batman:  a  soldier  paid  by  you  to  be  ab- 
sent when  you  want  him. 

Beer,  Belgian:  a  liquid  resembling  beer 
British  or  beer  American;  evidently  a  dis- 
tant branch  of  the  same  family. 

Billet:  and  place  so  designated  by  a  bil- 
leting officer. 

Dugout:  (a)  men's,  a  patriotic  dog  ken- 

[107J 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


nel  that  enlisted,  (b)  officer's,  a  root  cellar 
that  got  into  society. 

Duty:  anything,  everything. 

Heaven:  (a)  Leave,  (b)  Rum,  (c)  Heat. 

Hell :  working  party. 

Home:  a  poignant  memory  relegated  to 
the  limbo  of  things  unattainable. 

Jam:  a  sticky  substance  invariably  made 
of  plums,  used  to  smear  bread. 

M.T.  (Mechanical  Transport)  :  a  Jug- 
gernautical  affair  demanding  three-fourths 
of  the  road  and  made  to  splash  mud. 

Projectile :  see  working  party. 

Rations:  "Man  wants  but  little  here 
below." 

Rum:  a  warming  elixir  issued  in  tooth- 
fuls  by  zealous  officers. 

Sausages:  pork,  a  species  of  animal  ex- 
tinct. 

Sock:  an  ever  wet,  sticky  article,  used  as 
a  covering  for  foot,  hand  or  rifle. 

Working  party:  hell. 

Whiskey:  well,  the  Governor  of  North 
Carolina  said — 
I108] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


I  really  don't  think  there  is  any  more  to 
say  this  time. 

Remember  me  to  any  one  who  would 

care  to  remember  me,  with  love  to and 

heaps  for  you. 

Billy. 


f April  5,  iqi6. 
Dear  Mother, — 

Just  a  few  lines.  IVe  neglected  you  hor- 
ribly this  week,  but  work  has  pressed  aw- 
fully. Saturday  last,  the  battalion  moved 
up  into  the  trenches,  and  just  before  they 
left  I  was  detailed  to  act  as  Transport  Offi- 
cer. That  is,  nightly  to  take  up  the  rations 
to  the  men  in  addition  to  many  other  duties. 

It  is  no  sinecure,  I  can  assure  you,  as  it 
means  cold  blooded  riding  on  a  horse  at  the 
head  of  your  transport  column,  seven  lim- 
bers, at  a  walk,  along  roads  subjected  to 
high  explosives,  shrapnel  and  whizz  bangs, 
in  addition  to  being  potted  at  by  snipers 
when  you  get  close  to  the  trenches. 

We  go  through  one  of  the  most  famous 

[109] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ruined  cities  of  Belgium  each  night,  which 
they  shell  continuously,  and  also  all  along 
the  way.  We  leave  at  dusk,  go  sixteen 
miles  there  and  back,  returning  between 
twelve  p.m.  and  two  a.m.,  and  I  would  like 
you  to  know  all  about  it,  but  cannot  spare 
time  just  now  to  write,  but  will  to-morrow. 
A  message  has  just  come  to  say  that  the 
roads  are  being  shelled  more  than  ever  to- 
night and  we  must  proceed  with  twenty 
yards  interval  between  limbers,  that  is  to 
minimise  the  danger  of  the  whole  transport 
being  blown  up. 

You  see  troops  must  be  fed.  No  excuses 
go  if  rations  don't  come.  If  one  way  fails 
you  must  have  another,  and  your  brain  amid 
the  rumble  of  wheels  and  the  rattle  and 
shriek  of  shells,  is  always  figuring  a  way 
out  if  one  limber  gets  blown  up.  Person- 
ally I  prefer  the  trenches.  There,  one  has 
a  rifle  at  least  and  the  excitement  and  lust 
of  retaliation  helps.  This  business  is  de- 
liberately slowly  and  precisely  walking  into 
an  inferno — one  that  puts  Dante's  in  the 
class  of  a  skating  rink.  I  had  two  horses 
[no] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


injured  last  night  and  one  man  shot  straight 
through  his  cap. 

Anyway,  dear,  you  and  I  are  queer, 
psychically  I  mean.  I've  never  had  any 
odd  premonitions,  but  to-night  I  feel  a  sense 
of  foreboding,  an  impending  danger,  so 
scribble  these  lines. 

Of  course  you  realise,  dear,  that  one 
schools  oneself  to  dying  if  necessary.  Not 
that  life  isn't  very  sweet  but,  when  one  is 
five  seconds  away  from  death  for  twenty- 
four  hours  a  day,  one  grows  rather  careless, 
I  suppose.  However,  dear,  I  feel  that  way 
to-night  as  I  know  I'm  riding  into  it,  so  in 
case  I  get  bumped  off  I  wanted  to  write 
you. 

All  my  love  and  all  my  thoughts. 

Billy. 

I  enclose  a  letter  I've  never  finished  I 
want  you  to  have. 

Dear  Mother, — 

.   Although  it  was  only  yesterday  I  wrote 
you  the  mood  is  on  me  to-night  and  I  want 

[in] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


to  have  a  paper  talk  with  you.  You  see, 
dear,  there's  something  new  come  into  my 
life  and  I  just  don't  know  how  to  cope  with 
it.  Although  it's  old,  old,  I  guess  it  was 
old  when  Nineveh  and  Tyre  flourished;  yet 
right  now  in  my  own  time,  my  own  heart, 
it  is  very  real  and  so  I  want  to  tell  you 
about  it. 

You'll  doubtless  remember,  dear,  I  spoke 
often  within  the  last  two  years  or  so  of  hav- 
ing a  home  of  my  own.  The  ardent  long- 
ing that  ever  and  anon  pressed  upon  me  for 
something  other  than  the  vacuum  of  a  room 
when  night  came  on.  It  was  always  night 
when  the  desire  came;  night,  when  my 
thoughts,  relieved  from  the  duties  of  the 
day,  spent  their  own  time  in  rambling  day 
dreams.  Always  with  night-time  came,  I 
say,  that  insistent  little  wish  for  something 
beside  a  bar  room,  a  club,  a  theatre,  a  gilded 
restaurant,  or  the  four  walls  of  a  bedroom. 
Well,  dear,  I  suppose  that  wish  was  the 
forerunner  of  the  new  something  that  has 
burst  out  into  my  days  and  nights.  That 
[112] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


something  that  I  suppose  must  be  called 
Love. 

In  retrospect  to-night,  I  can  not  recall 
any  event  in  my  life  of  any  importance  that 
you  didn't  know  about  first.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  boyish  secrets  that  really 
cannot  be  considered,  I  fail  to  rake  from 
memory's  heap,  one  joy  or  sorrow  that  your 
mother's  intuition  didn't  learn  of  or  that  I 
didn't  tell  you,  and  so,  dear,  I  want  to  go 
to  you  to-night,  my  Mother  Confessor. 

Since  I've  really  grown  up  and  known 
my  mind  I  don't  think  I've  ever  been  what 
is  popularly  known  as  a  ladies'  man.  I 
never  had  my  nails  manicured  but  once,  and 
as  a  juggler  of  macaroons  at  afternoon  teas 
I'm  a  decided  frost.  In  fact,  reduced 
down,  I  guess  I  failed  to  qualify  in  the  opin- 
ion of  the  ladies.  I  am  no  Apollo,  and  as 
a  matter  of  fact  was  too  fond  of  my  Oster- 
moor  to  arise  early  enough  to  titivate  my- 
self. Perhaps,  largely  because  I  had  no  in- 
centive other  than  a  desire  to  be  only  neatly 
dressed,  I  aroused  in  no  woman  more  than 
a  passing  interest.    I  was  always  content  to 

[113J 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


dance  with  them,  take  them  to  a  theatre  and 
home,  with  an  occasional  kiss  surrepti- 
tiously stolen  (I've  flattered  myself).  Self- 
ish perhaps,  I  made  myself  pleasant,  or 
tried  to,  because  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  trot 
out  a  well  dressed,  good  looking  damsel. 
But  when  I  left  her,  that  ended  it. 

But  now,  away  over  here  in  war  ridden 
Belgium,  comes  the  grand  desire  for  just 
one  woman.  It's  a  queer  psychological 
fact,  that  every  man  in  khaki  wants  a  wife ; 
witness  the  war  weddings.  I  presume  it's 
the  old  primordial  instinct  come  out.  He 
seems  to  want  some  one  to  leave  behind; 
some  one  to  fight  for.  He  seems  to  want 
the  sensation  of  the  cave  man,  that  of  bat- 
tling for  one  being,  his  woman.  So,  the  nat- 
ural supposition  comes  that  it's  one  woman, 
my  woman.  At  any  rate  constantly  there  is, 
before  me,  the  vision  of  the  face  of  the  "Girl 
I  left  behind  me."  Queer  little  memories 
that  come  intruding  into  my  mind,  which 
should  perhaps  be  employed  in  the  weight- 
ier problem  of  figuring  out  how  many  tins 
of  the  inevitable  plum  jam  my  platoon 
I114] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


should  draw  in  to-night's  rations,  or  some 
similar  worry.  But  as  I  say,  the  memory 
of  her  intrudes  in  so  many  ways.  Some- 
times on  a  route  march,  as  I  swing  along  in 
the  self-same  monotonous  step — for  one  gets 
to  be  an  automaton  at  marching — the  pic- 
tures of  her  come  back.  A  picture  of  how 
she  looked  the  first  night  I  met  her,  of  the 
profile  of  her,  marked  in  memory's  book  at 
a  movie,  of  sitting  in  the  gleam  of  a  grate 
fire,  of  the  last  weepy  moments  before  the 
train  left.  All  these  and  many  more  recur 
with  insistent  demand  for  my  attention  at 
queer  times,  and  in  queer  places.  I  think 
that  every  night  in  that  magic  space  of  min- 
utes that  are  one's  very  own,  the  fleeting  sec- 
onds between  the  time  I  slide  shiveringly 
into  a  blanket  and  the  drowsy  instant  I  fall 
asleep,  comes  the  mental  picture  of  her. 
And  because  that  has  always  been  a  sort  of 
sacred  minute  of  mine  own,  a  moment  for 
my  deepest  thought,  my  sincerest  resolu- 
tions, I  feel  sure  that  Love  has  come  to  me. 
As  I  said  before,  the  sensation  is  new — 
the  longing  for  one  person  in  all  the  world, 

[iiSl 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


so  infinitely  foreign  heretofore — I  can 
scarcely  dissect  my  feelings,  can  really  not 
comprehend  it.  Albeit,  the  desire  for  her 
is  there,  the  heart-hunger  for  the  sight  of 
her,  the  wish  to  be  beside  her  to-night,  now, 
and  ever.  Ever  the  plans  for  a  future 
home — that  seems  to  be  the  goal  of  all  the 
thoughts,  no  matter  where  the  train  of 
memory  started,  nor  how  tortuous  the  road; 
always  the  end  is  in  the  home  I'll  come  back 
to,  the  home  I've  planned. 

Billy. 


Somewhere, 
April  16, 1916. 
Dear  Mother,— 

Your  letters  of  March  20,  26,  29  all  to 
hand.  I  received  a  parcel  from  Eaton's. 
Thanks  very  much.     Also  the  parcels  from 

Auntie for  which  I  am  going  to  write. 

Well,  my  dear,  I  sent  you  a  scribbled  lit- 
tle note  some  days  ago  but  you  see  every- 
thing is  all  right.     The  prescience  of  the 
future  was  a  little  strong  that  evening,  I  fear 
[116] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


me,  but  I  sure  felt  queer.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  nothing  could  have  been  more  quiet 
than  that  night.  I  guess  I  mustn't  let  my 
vivid  imagination  run  riot  any  more.  The 
nervous  strain  is  absolutely  too  much,  so 
will  not  do  it  again. 

Well,  dear,  I'm  still  on  this  transport  job, 
and  I  can  assure  you  it  will  be  somewhat  of 
a  relief  to  get  off.  You  see  you  sit  on  a 
nervous  horse  and  head  a  procession  up  to 
the  ration  dump.  It's  too  bally  cold 
blooded  an  affair  for  me.  There  one  sits  in 
calm  majesty,  as  it  were,  and  from  the  time 
you  start  out  till  you  get  within  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  of  the  trenches,  Fritz  heaves 
over  H.  E.  shrapnel  and  whizz  bangs — all 
very  real  forms  of  frightfulness.  Then  as 
one  gets  up  to  the  line  the  road  is  peppered 
by  indirect  machine  gun  fire,  and  still  one 
sits  and  takes  it.  You  see  there  is  no  re- 
taliation,— if  one  is  on  a  front  line  trench, 
well,  you  could  work  off  your  superfluous 
hate  by  fifteen  rounds  rapid;  or  you  know 
that  by  a  telephone  you  can  have  your  sup- 
porting battery  heave  a  dozen  or  so  upon 

[117] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


the  heads  of  the  Huns,  thereby  proving  to 
him  you're  asleep;  but  this  old  transport 
job  is  such  a  helpless,  hopeless  affair.  It's 
as  much  the  moral  effect  as  anything,  for, 
each  time  you  start  out,  you  know  that 
somewhere  along  the  road  you're  going  to 
run  into  it  and  you  bake  that  thought  into 
a  russet  brown  as  it  heats  in  the  oven  of 
your  mind.  You  see  Napoleon  said  an 
army  moved  on  its  stomach,  and  while 
movement  these  days  is  just  a  trifle  differ- 
ent from  his  time,  Tommy  to-day  has  to 
have  his  beans,  bully  beef  and  jam,  etc., 
just  the  same.  There  is  no  such  word  as 
can't  in  the  bright  lexicon  of  a  subaltern, 
and  I  am  thinking  it  applies  even  more  to 
a  transport  officer,  for  no  excuses  are  ac- 
cepted if  rations  don't  come.  If  you  get  a 
bump  there's  a  sergeant,  if  both  get  it,  a 
corporal,  and  finally  a  driver  to  every  team, 
who'll  do  his  duty  and  get  the  stuff  there. 

However,  it  is  a  wonderful  experience  to 

ride  along  a  road  that  is  being  shelled. 

Perchance  in  the  glory  of  a  sunset,  or  in 

the  light  of  the  old  moon,  or  yet  again  on  a 

[n8] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


coal  black  night  with  rain  making  the  roads 
like  a  banana  peel  on  a  granolithic  sidewalk, 
and  you  as  miserable  as  a  human  being  can 
feel.  It's  wonderful,  I  say,  to  look  into 
the  hell  of  a  big  shell  that  bursts  fifty  feet 
away  and  of  which  you  can  feel  the  concus- 
sion. In  fact,  the  longer  I'm  here  the  more 
wonderful  this  war  seems.  The  psychology 
of  the  human  element  is  most  amazing. 
The  other  night  as  I  rode  up  a  road,  above 
my  head  was  the  whish-whish-whish,  ad  in- 
finitum, of  machine  gun  fire,  while  on  the 
ground  the  put-put-put  of  the  same,  or 
rather  other  guns ;  and,  will  you  believe  me, 
I  found  myself  humming  "Little  Grey 
Home  of  the  West."  That  sounds  incredi- 
ble but  nevertheless  is  absolutely  a  fact. 

Well,  Old  Mumsie,  I'd  like  to  recount 
for  you  some  of  my  impressions.  For  in- 
stance, can  you  imagine  riding  along  a  road- 
way, with  the  moon  beneath  a  cloud  and, 
from  right  to  left,  the  light  of  thousands  of 
flares  going  up ;  flares  that  make  the  white 
lights  at  Toronto  Exhibition  Fireworks 
seem,  like  a  candle,  as  against  a  ioo  watt 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Mazda.  As  I  say,  flares  radiating  a  pale 
white  glow,  guns  booming,  rifle  fire  crack- 
ing, and  suddenly,  out  from  the  clouds, 
comes  the  moon,  and  there,  beside  the  road, 
glistening  in  the  light  of  Luna,  is  one  of 
the  small  graveyards  which  punctuate  the 
land.  Perhaps  fifty  men  have  been 
"dumped" — that's  the  word — under  those 
mounds,  with  the  scant  short  liturgy  of  the 
service  read  over  them;  and  you  see  the 
gleaming  white  wooden  crosses  like  so  many 
spectres  standing  out  against  the  ground. 
"God's  Acre,"  if  ever  there  was  one,  not 
one  acre,  but  thousands  that  forever  and  a 
day  will  be  a  lasting  tribute  to  the  manhood 
of  the  Empire.  At  one  place  along  my 
route  there  is  a  tiny  roadside  shrine.  It 
stands  beside  a  road  untouched,  and  senti- 
nels the  tiny  white  forest  of  crosses  that 
loom  out  of  the  night. 

That's  but  one  picture  limned  in  bold 
lines  on  my  brain;  there  are  dozens  that  I 
can't  write  of.  But  one  is  a  ride  in  moon- 
light through  a  ruined  city.  Can  you  pic- 
ture a  city  as  large  as,  well,  Brandon;  a  city 
[120] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


noted  for  its  wonderful  Gothic  architecture, 
absolutely  razed — not  a  whole  building 
left — here  a  wall,  there  a  conglomeration  of 
debris;  a  city  of  homes  and  stores  deserted, 
save  for  a  few  soldiers  who  control  traffic 
through  its  streets  and  who  live  like  rats  in 
a  cellar?  I  know  you  couldn't  picture  it 
any  more  than  my  poor  pen  can  write  of  it, 
but  still  I  wonder  if  you  can  imagine  the 
impression  etched  on  my  mind  as  I  rode 
between  those  ruined  walls  while  the  moon- 
light sifted  between  crags  of  bricks  and 
fantastic  minarets  of  mortar. 

I  dismounted  the  other  night  and  went 
into  the  ruins  of  a  seventeenth  century 
Cathedral,  a  glorious  structure  in  its  day, 
a  world  renowned  spot;  and  there  in  the 
dusty  debris  of  its  chancel  I  stood  and 
thought.  Gone  was  the  spell  of  sanctity 
that  pervades  one  as  he  enters  a  consecrated 
place,  gone  the  inimitable  gothic  work  of 
its  altar,  gone  the  images  of  gold  and 
porcelain,  the  gold  lace  of  the  altar  cloth. 
Never  again  will  the  Nunc  Dimittis  be 

[121] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


chanted,  never  the  incense  of  swinging 
brazier  scent  the  air,  and  never  again  will 
a  black-robed  priest  from  his  latticed  con- 
fessional box  listen  to  the  story  of  human 
frailties.  It's  hard  to  tell  you,  Mother  o' 
mine,  just  the  thoughts  that  came  and  went, 
hard  to  dissect  the  notes  that  sounded  in  my 
heart;  but  one  that  was  as  a  clarion  was  the 
absence  of  a  GOD.  That  may  sound  funny 
or  sacrilegious,  but  it  was  the  uppermost 
thought  in  my  mind.  Here  a  house  of  His 
wrecked  until  only  a  wall  of  broken  stone 
and  a  statue  of  the  Virgin  stood  to  remem- 
ber it  by.  Anyway,  herewith  a  small  piece 
of  handmade  lace  dug  from  out  the  debris 
and  presumably  made  by  palefaced  nuns 
as  part  of  the  altar  cloth.  I'll  try  and  get 
some  more  for  Auntie.  Do  not  attempt  to 
wash  it.  I  also  have  some  stained  glass 
which  I'll  not  be  able  to  send  yet. 

Well,  dear,  it's  bedtime,  which  is  a  mov- 
able feast  in  this  land,  and  one  must  grab 
as  much  as  you  can  when  you  can. 

Love  to  all. 

Billy. 

[122]. 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Flanders, 

April  27,  IQl6. 
My  Dear  Mother, — 

I've  been  waiting  every  day  for  a  letter 
from  you,  but  so  far  it  seems  that  there  isn't 
one.  It's  over  two  weeks  since  one  came, 
and  every  day  I've  put  off  writing,  patiently 
waiting  so  that  I  could  answer  it. 

There  really  isn't  very  much  news  to 
write  you  this  time.  The  transport  officer 
came  back,  so  I  return  to  my  company  to- 
night. The  transport  job  was  all  right  but 
I'd  just  as  soon  go  back  to  my  platoon. 
However,  the  C.  O.  in  turning  over  to  the 
T.  O.  said  I  had  done  good  work  and  he 
would  remember  it;  also,  he  wouldn't  re- 
move me  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  I  was 
a  senior  sub.  in  the  regiment.  So  to-mor- 
row night  up  we  go  into  the  trenches,  into 
a  real  delightful  spot;  at  least  delightful  in 
the  fact  that  Fritz  makes  it  very  warm  there. 
Casualties  have  been  quite  heavy  there 
lately.  From  the  distance  come  the  sounds 
of  a  band  playing  "Marching  Through 
Georgia,"  and  you  know  I've  a  sneaking 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


wish  I  were.  The  bands  out  here  are  surely 
a  great  delight  for,  on  an  afternoon,  from 
the  four  quarters  come  marches,  waltzes, 
or  overtures,  punctuated  by  an  occasional 
artillery  prelude,  and  none  too  pleasantly 
obliterated  by  the  strident  skirl  of  the  pi- 
broch. Nevertheless  the  old  adage  that 
"Music  hath  charms"  holds  good  out  here 
and  our  savage  breasts  are  soothed  and  our 
minds  refreshed  by  the  airs,  be  they  mar- 
tial or  motherly,  that  every  band  sends  out, 
from  the  famous  Coldstreams,  down  to  a 
cheeping  fife  and  drum. 

Humour  out  here  is  a  saving  grace  and  I 
can  assure  you  there  are  lots  of  chances  to 
acquire  the  grace.  For  instance,  while 
passing  through  a  certain  town  which  has 
been,  and  is,  continually  shelled,  a  soldier 
on  sentry  duty  in  my  hearing  said  "I  was 
sent  back  to  do  base  duty.  This  is  a  'ell  of 
a  base."  This  caustic  remark  was  made  as 
he  stopped  the  transport  to  inform  me  the 
road  ahead  was  being  shelled,  and  as  we 
stopped  Fritz  lobbed  over  a  couple  of  shrap- 
nel just  ahead  some  twenty  yards.  Of 
[124] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


course  no  one  who  hasn't  been  out  here  can 
appreciate  the  story.  You  must  know  the 
setting  ere  the  crux  penetrates,  but  I  rode 
along  and  laughed  as  much  as  if  I  were  in 
Shea's  and  Al  Jolson  was  "on." 

But  what  I  started  to  say  was  that  the 
most  humorous  humors  we  have  are  the 
home  papers  with  their  vivid  descriptions, 
etc.,  gleaned  by  men  who  never  go  nearer 
to  the  front  than  where  the  rail  head  is, 
also  the  letters  from  budding  officers  in 
Canada.     For  instance,  I  read  one  the  other 

day  where  a  subaltern  in ,  who  is  in 

charge  of  the  recruiting  of  some  battalion, 
said  he  certainly  didn't  think  that  anything 
could  be  so  arduous.  I'll  bet  if  that  guy 
knew  how  many  laughs  he  handed  a  lot  of 
us  out  here  he'd  feel  qualified  to  start  an 
act  in  vaudeville.  I'll  also  bet  that  if  half 
the  gang  in  Canada  who  are  breaking  their 
necks  to  get  commissions,  realised  the  re- 
sponsibilities entailed  by  a  Sam  Brown  belt 
and  two  stars  on  their  sleeves,  they'd  not  be 
so  anxious.  It's  jake  swanking  around  Can- 
ada as  a  Major,  but  it's  different  over  here. 

[125] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


One's  responsibilities  seem  enormous,  and 
really  are,  together  with  just  the  same  dis- 
comforts and  hard  work  that  any  one  on 
the  front  line  goes  through.  Your  men, 
while  they  are  men  and  must  not  be  treated 
as  children,  depend  absolutely  on  you  for 
their  very  being.  You  are  a  sort  of  last  re- 
sort for  everything  in  their  lives,  from 
clothes  and  food  to  seeing  their  effects  go 
to  their  people  after  they  are  gone  to  the 
"Last  Parade."  You  know,  dear,  I  some- 
times think  it's  pathetic  the  dependence  of 
these  chaps  on  me,  and  one  only  really  real- 
ises what  a  King's  Commission  means  when 
you  get  out  here. 

I  believe  they've  stopped  publishing  casu- 
alties by  battalions  or  are  going  to,  so  now 
you'll  never  know  whether  we've  been 
bumped  or  not. 

I've  not  found  time  to  write  to  any  one 
but  you,  lately,  so  you'll  have  to  convey  my 
love  or  regards,  as  the  case  may  be,  to  every 
one. 

Heaps  of  love. 

Billy. 
[126] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


May  13,  1916. 
Dear  Mother, — 

I  have  your  letters  of  the  16th,  18th  and 
22nd  of  April,  and  altho'  I've  been  out  of 
the  trenches  for  five  days  I've  not  been  able 
to  concentrate  my  thoughts  on  writing. 

We  spent  eight  days  of  veritable  hell  in 
a  rotten  part  of  the  line,  in  fact  the  worst 
part  I've  ever  been  in.  We  occupied  a  se- 
ries of  holes,  some  connected  and  some  iso- 
lated, ranging  in  distance  from  thirty  to 
fifteen  yards  from  Fritz's  lines.  They 
were  old  German  trenches  taken  some  time 
ago,  and  it  is  almost  impossible  to  do  any 
great  amount  of  work  on  them. 

Well,  as  I  say,  we  spent  the  time  in  them, 
and  I  was  heartily  thankful  to  get  out.  I 
went  through  my  first  heavy  bombardment 
at  really  close  range.  They  dumped 
"Crumps,"  Coal  Boxes,  Shrapnel  and 
Whizz-bangs  to  the  number  of  about  three 
hundred  all  around  us  for  two  hours  and 
then  attacked.  Just  as  night  overshadowed 
daylight  and  objects  began  to  grow  indis- 
tinct, one  of  my  sentries  reported  a  party  out 

[127] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


in  the  front.  Suddenly  from  our  right, 
rapid  fire  and  machine  guns  opened  up,  and 
so  I  gave  the  order  "fifteen  rounds  rapid." 
Keyed  up  and  ready  were  the  boys,  and  we 
gave  them  a  few  hundred  capsules  of  steel. 
Squeals,  grunts,  and  moans,  then  the  re- 
verberating roar  of  machine  guns,  and  rifle 
fire  ceased.  So,  our  first  real  attack  was  re- 
pulsed. Further  on,  our  line  suffered  more 
heavily  but  I  guess  we  were  fairly  lucky. 
All  the  night  they  kept  at  us  with  bombs, 
rifle  grenades  and  trench  mortars  to  which 
we  replied  in  kind  vigorously,  but  they 
learned  their  lesson  from  that  taut  tense  ten 
minutes.     No  more  attacks. 

That  is,  I  suppose,  a  pretty  tame  story  of 
a  bombardment,  an  attack,  its  repulsion,  but 
words  fail  me.  The  confines  of  expression 
are  not  competent  to  tell  you  much  more. 
I've  refrained  from  writing,  hoping  that  in 
the  interim  some  inspiration  would  come 
that  would  adequately  convey  to  you  a  pic- 
ture. I  tried  to  dissect  my  emotions  so  that 
you  might  visualise,  partially  at  least,  what 

[128] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


a  day  and  a  night — twenty-four  hours  in  a 
front  line  trench  mean;  but  I  have  failed 
dismally. 

To  begin  with,  the  nervous  strain  is  great, 
and  when  one  has  his  heart  broken  in  addi- 
tion, it's  hard  to  limn  for  another,  the  lines 
etched  on  your  soul,  the  impressions  reg- 
istered in  your  memory. 

My  heart  was  broken,  dear,  because  be- 
fore this  bombardment  at  all  I  lost  eighteen 
men  of  my  own  platoon;  eighteen  of  the 
best  and  truest  fellows  I've  ever  known; 
saw  five  of  them  die — one  in  my  arms — all 
hit  by  these  devils  of  Huns — hit  by  snipers 
who  use  explosive  bullets — a  bullet  that 
tears  a  hole  as  large  as  a  tomato  can,  and  if 
it  strikes  anything  hard  bursts  into  three 
pieces,  each  the  size  of  a  quarter,  that  maims 
and  wounds — a  bullet  that  if  it  hits  the  head 
tears  off  the  top. 

God!  I  wonder  if  you  could  even  im- 
agine the  primordial  lust  of  battle  that 
courses  through  one's  brain,  the  desire  to 
kill  that  permeates  the  muscle,  the  exhilara- 

[129] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


tion  that  comes  when  you  know  you've  actu- 
ally hit  one  of  your  enemies. 

I  can  candidly  say  there  was  no  fear  in 
me. 

For  months,  in  fact  long  ere  we  left  old 
Canada,  the  fear  I  had  that  dominated  my 
waking  moments  was  not  will  I  be  afraid, 
but  will  I  be  able  to  control  my  fear.  I  was 
always  afraid  I  would  be  afraid.  Well, 
after  the  bombardment  ceased  I  wasn't,  and 
even  during  that  two  hours  of  mental  tor- 
ture I  wasn't  afraid,  just  nervous.  But 
when  I  knew  they  were  actually  coming,  ah! 
what  exhilaration,  what  primeval  bloody 
thoughts  I  had!  A  valiant  desire  came 
amid  the  fight  to  do  all  the  damage  I  could, 
and  I  rushed  from  bay  to  bay  of  the  sector 
of  trench  I  commanded,  exhorting  my  men 
to  be  steady  and  cursing  them  if  they 
weren't,  here  grabbing  an  extra  rifle  and 
blazing  its  magazine  full  at  the  indistinct 
forms,  or  there  firing  one  shot  from  my  re- 
volver. No  fear,  no  thought  of  self;  just 
the  hope  that  we'd  beat  them  off;  just  the 
I130] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


thought  constantly  of  what  was  best  to  do, 
how  best  to  preserve  every  life  in  my 
charge — every  life  in  my  charge  that  was 
preserving  my  life.  So  you  see,  analysed 
and  tested  down,  the  ancient  self-preserva- 
tion rule  holds  good. 

But  the  aftermath — the  vacuum  at  the 
stomach — the  palpitating  heart — the  deep 
breaths  you  needed,  that,  if  you  did  not  take, 
it  seemed  as  if  you'd  choke,  the  feeling  you 
must  sit  down — the  desire  for  a  drink — the 
insatiable  way  in  which  you  ate  up  cigarette 
after  cigarette  in  long  deep  inhales — the 
hope  they  would  not  start  bombarding 
again — the  cheery  voice  you  forced  as  you 
walked  along  a  bath  mat  and  jokingly 
curbed  your  own  desire  to  shout  by  praising 
the  men  and  belittling  "the  show;"  all  these 
when  your  emotions  that  had  bubbled  to 
the  boiling  point  again  simmered  down. 
That  night  as  I  walked  along  and  did  my 
best  to  restore  the  steadiness  of  my  men, 
ever  and  anon  came  those  immortal  lines  of 
Kipling: 

[131] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


"If  you  can  force  your  heart  and  nerve  and 

sinew 
To  serve  your  turn,  long  after  they  are 

gone 
And  so  hold  on,  when  there  is  nothing  in 

you 
Except  the  Will,  which  says  to  them  'Hold 

on/  " 

recurred  again  and  again,  and  I  offered  up 
to  the  Almighty,  He  whose  name  a  few 
minutes  before  I  had  taken  in  vain,  a  fer- 
vent, silent,  little  prayer,  that  I  should  be 
given  the  strength  of  will  and  body  to  keep 
it  up. 

Then  the  interminable  night  with  every 
nerve  and  muscle  strained  in  a  long  "stand 
to,"  with  the  added  exertion  of  placing  an 
additional  platoon  that  came  up  as  rein- 
forcements, and  the  cramped,  numb  feeling 
as  one  sat  in  a  narrow  trench  with  the  in- 
termittent rattle  of  rifle  fire,  the  insistent 
tattoo  of  a  machine  gun,  or  the  hazy  smoke 
of  flares  that  ever  and  anon  "swizzed"  up 
here  and  there,  lighting  in  their  ghastly 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


magnesium  the  faces  of  the  men  who, 
cramped  and  cold,  waited  for  they  knew 
not  what.  All  these  factors,  I  say,  broke 
the  nerve  and  strained  the  mentality. 

And  the  wait  for  dawn.  I  sat  and 
watched  the  sky  star-studded,  if  ever  it  was, 
watched  Ursus  Major,  Polaris,  The  Plei- 
ades, Andromeda,  a  star  I  thought  was 
Saturn,  and  one  I  knew  was  Mars — Mars 
the  God  we're  propitiating  over  here.  I 
watched  them  and  untold  millions  more 
fade  into  the  steel  vault  that,  by  the  alchemy 
of  old  Sol,  melted  into  priscilla  grey  and 
imperceptibly  changed  to  whitey  blue, 
while  rimming  the  East  was  the  orange 
band  that  I  knew  some  six  hours  later  would 
herald  the  dawn  of  day  to  you  in  dear  old 
Homeland.  Then  the  real  diurnal  "stand 
to"  as  dawn  comes  up.  Every  man  ready, 
alert  and  anxious,  until  bright  daylight  dis- 
pels all  fears  of  an  attack. 

After  that  "stand  down"  and  then  Rum. 
Ah,  that  Rum!  If  some  of  those  carping 
criers  at  home  whose  protests  against  Tom- 
my getting  his  tot  could  sit  with  their  feet 

[133] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


numbed  and  chilled  by  eighteen  inches  of 
stinking  water,  could  sit  or  stand  for 
twenty-four  hours  a  day  in  a  cramped 
crouch  and  feel,  as  I  have  felt,  that  a  chance 
to  stretch  their  legs  and  arms  would  be  a 
luxury  rivalling  the  dearest  wish  that  here- 
tofore you'd  ever  had;  I  say,  if  some  of 
those  people  at  home  could  do  these  things, 
oh  how  I'd  love  to  take  them  for  an  eight 
day  tour,  I  feel  sure  they'd  never  open  their 
mouths  again.  That  mouthful  of  rum, 
about  a  half  wine-glass,  trickles  down 
warming  and  burning,  meanwhile  restoring 
in  a  man  whose  nerves  are  like  the  lace  on 
a  window  blind,  a  little  vigour,  a  further 
lease  on  life,  that  in  the  grey  dawn  seems 
cheap  at  best.  If  they  want  to  do  away 
with  their  own  drinks  let  them,  but  until 
they've  been  through  the  acid  test  of  ninety- 
six  hours  without  much  rest,  ninety-six 
hours  of  mental  strain  and  physical  exer- 
tion, mayhap  ninety-six  hours  when  every 
stitch  of  clothing  has  been  wet  through, 
please  let  them  keep  their  hands  off  the 
question  out  here. 
Ii34] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


After  that  elixir,  "Stand  down!"  when 
only  the  various  sentries  are  left  on  duty 
all  through  the  long  day,  but  every  man 
cleans  his  rifle  and  equipments,  and  if  any 
water  is  available  shaves,  washes  and  tries 
to  scrape  some  of  the  mud  from  his  clothes. 
And  then  a  breakfast  You  who  at  home 
sit  down  to  a  half  of  a  succulent  grape-fruit 
or  a  sliced  orange,  with  porridge  and  cream 
(I  had  almost  forgotten  that  word),  or  a 
browned  and  sizzling  omelet  with  thin, 
crisp  toast  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  will  never 
know  what  it  is  to  boil  water  over  a  candle 
wrapped  in  sacking.  The  recipe  for  this  is : 
Fold  a  piece  of  sacking,  preferably  dry,  if 
available,  around  one  and  a  half  inches  of 
waxed  candle,  place  these  ingredients  wick- 
end  up  in  an  empty  jam  tin,  which  has  been 
perforated  with  a  knife ;  on  this  one  places 
his  mess  tin  full  of  water  and  lights  the 
candle.  Then  comes  in  President  Wilson  s 
idea,  "A  watchful,  waiting  policy."  Mean- 
while, Fritz  is  sending  notes  in  the  form  of 
shrapnel,  which,  while  conciliatory,  are 
nevertheless  likely  to  cause  a  breach  in  your 

[135] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


relations  with  the  aforesaid  can  and  candle, 
or  even  in  your  anatomy,  if  you  are  in  its 
way.  Well,  after  you've  watched  and 
waited  and  heaped  on  more  fuel,  which  is 
obtained  by  cutting  off  the  fat  from  your 
meagre  slice  of  bacon,  the  water  bubbles 
and  actually  boils.  Then  you  add  a  hand- 
ful of  tea  and  sugar  mixed  by  a  thoughtful 
Quartermaster-sergeant,  and  the  ambrosia 
is  ready  to  serve.  This  with  the  unex- 
pended- portion  of  your  extra  fuel  men- 
tioned above,  which  is  crisped  in  the  same 
manner,  forms  your  matutinal  feast,  at  least, 
with  the  addition  of  your  half  loaf  of  bread 
which  is  held  in  your  left  hand,  and  eaten 
as  a  school  boy  does  an  apple. 

I  fear  that  this  epistle  grows  weary,  so 
will  start  with  lots  of  little  things.  To 
begin  with,  I  received  a  parcel  of  socks, 
candy,  coffee  and  cream  cheese  from  A. 
S.,  for  which  I  wrote  a  note,  also  sent  a 

souvenir.    I   am   sending  a   parcel 

which  is  for  you,  two  nose  caps  off  German 
shells  and  a  bullet  which  clipped  a  piece 
[136] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


out  of  my  sleeve,  afterwards  burying  itself 
in  a  good  old  sand  bag. 

Read  the  bottom  of  a  Grape  Nuts.  Don't 
waste  postage  on  newspapers  and  don't  send 
anything  except  cakes,  as  we  can  buy  here, 
more  cheaply  than  you,  fruits,  etc.  Ca- 
nadian cigarettes  always  acceptable,  also 
handerchiefs,  cheapest  obtainable,  as  we 
lose  vast  quantities. 

Socks  are  jake,  for  if  we  can't  use  them 
ourselves  we  give  them  to  the  men. 

Hope  this  bally  "show"  will  be  over  in 
a  short  time.    Yours, 

Billy. 

P.S. — Later  will  send  story  of  the  poor 
chap  who  died  in  my  arms. 

B. 

See  page  158. 

London, 
August  8,  IQl6. 
My  Dear  Mother, — 

I  am  going  to  try  to  put  on  paper,  my 
dear,  a  few  of  the  million  pictures  that  are 

1^7} 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


etched  in  the  gallery  of  my  memory.  The 
picture  I'm  trying  to  pen  for  you  is  the 
one  which  comes  to  me  here  in  hospital  as 
I  try  to  piece  together  the  events  leading 
up  to  the  time  that  I  got  mine.  I  realise 
full  well  how  difficult  it  is  to  describe  "the 
front"  to  any  one  who  has  never  seen  a 
trench,  and  I  know  if  I'm  not  explicit 
sometimes  you'll  understand,  I'm  only  do- 
ing my  best.  I  fear  me  it  will  be  a  poor 
best  at  that,  for  so  many,  many  times  I've 
said  that  only  a  Dante  could  describe  and 
Dore  paint  it. 

To  begin  with,  you  must  understand  that 
our  brigade  had  been  relieved  at  night  after 
eight  days  of  very  trying  times  in  which  the 
Bosche  put  over  about  every  kind  of  pro- 
jectile he  owns,  from  Minenwarfers  or 
heavy  trench  mortars,  to  his  delectable 
whizz  bangs.  He  didn't  fail  even  to  pre- 
sent us  with  some  of  his  famous  "Silent  An- 
nies," a  large  calibre  shell  which  makes 
practically  no  noise  till  it  bursts.  Well,  as 
I  say,  we  were  relieved  and  finally  in  the 
grey  "coolth"  of  dawn  arrived  in  billets. 
[138] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


After  some  breakfast,  we  proceeded  to 
go  to  bed,  a  most  welcome  thought.  Off 
came  the  sticky  clothes  that  for  sixteen 
days — eight  spent  in  reserve — had  alter- 
nately been  wet  through  with  sweat  and 
water,  only  to  dry  again;  and  after  a  few 
preliminary  scratchings  of  sides  and  backs 
and  shoulders,  we  dropped  into  the  pro- 
found sleep  that  only  weary  men  know 
about  on  that  first  morning  in  billets. 

I  don't  suppose  I'm  any  bigger  coward 
than  the  average  man,  but  I  always  felt 
fervently  thankful  after  a  tour  in  the  line, 
when  we  arrived  in  billets.  There,  while 
not  safe  from  long  range  guns,  one  could 
at  least,  relax,  throw  off  the  harassing  strain, 
physical  and  mental,  drop  as  like  a  cloak 
the  responsibility  incurred  while  actually 
on  the  firing  line.  So,  I  say,  I,  and  I'm 
sure  every  one  else,  was  pleased  with  the 
thought  that  for  some  time,  except  for  work- 
ing parties,  we  were  free.  A  "Thank  God 
that's  over!"  feeling. 

I  was  awakened  by  my  man  about  ten 
a.m. — so   blessed   shave   and   wash — some 

[i39] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


more  breakfast,  and  then  we  revelled  in 
the  thought  of  a  bath.  We  went  from  hut 
to  hut  laughing  and  jesting,  here  compar- 
ing notes,  there  condoling  with  some  chap 
who  ordered  us  to  "Get  out,  I  didn't  get  in 
til  7.30,"  happy  and  free,  little  realising 
what  was  going  on  a  scant  eight  miles  away. 
Always,  always,  there  came  the  dull  boom 
of  guns,  perhaps  more  marked  than  usual, 
but  we  jocularly  said  that  the  "morning 
hate"  was  a  little  worse,  rather  pitying  the 
poor  devils  who  were  getting  it.  We 
didn't  know  whether  it  was  the  Huns  or 
not,  for  our  guns  were  speaking  more  than 
ordinarily.  As  we  heard  ours,  up  went  that 
little  wish  one  always  had  that  those  shells 
wouldn't  be  "duds,"  and  the  hope  they 
would  knock  some  of  our  dear  enemy  out. 
So,  as  I  tell  you,  we  passed  an  hour,  when 
the  word  was  brought  to  be  ready  to  "move 
in  an  hour."  Every  man  must  pack  his  kit 
and  not  move  from  his  own  hut.  Gone,  of 
course,  was  the  bath.  We  rather  regretted 
that.  We  felt,  I  think,  rather  upset  be- 
cause we  had  looked  forward  to  a  rest,  and 
[140] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


I  remember  cursing  the  Bosche  for  start- 
ing his  dirty  work  so  soon. 

Gathered  in  anxious  little  groups  we 
awaited  further  word.  After  a  couple  of 
hours,  we  heard  some  rumoured  reports 
that  told  only  too  well  what  we  afterwards 
learned.  Well,  we  "stood  to"  till  some- 
time in  the  afternoon,  I  couldn't  say  just  the 
hour  for  one  loses  all  sense  of  time;  then 
came  the  word  to  "move  off." 

Once  more,  with  the  slow  step  that  is 
used  on  the  road  to  the  front  line,  we  started. 
The  first  part  of  the  journey  was  easy.  Oc- 
casionally a  lone  shrapnel  would  burst  on 
the  road,  but  it  was  only  when  we  got  up 
into  the  area  where  the  "heavies"  were  that 
we  felt  the  force  of  the  bombardment. 
Steadily  we  marched  in  the  bright  after- 
noon sun,  here  and  there  halting;  at  this 
corner  turning  off  the  main  road  into  a  by- 
way because  the  Germans  were  "searching" 
the  road,  until  just  at  twilight  tide  we  ar- 
rived, by  devious  by-paths,  outside  "Wip- 
ers." 

The   order  was   passed   "no   lights,   no 

[141] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


smoking,  no  noise."  The  last  injunction 
was  entirely  superfluous,  for  between  the 
shriek  and  boom  of  our  shells,  also  theirs, 
coupled  with  the  rumble  of  the  artillery 
limbers  that  galloped  up  with  more  "iron 
rations,"  one  could  scarce  be  heard.  Here 
we  sat  or  sprawled  in  the  dewy  grass  await- 
ing orders.  Just  as  twilight  faded  into 
night,  amid  the  roar  of  an  exceptional  burst 
of  artillery,  the  sky  lighted  up  by  what 
seemed  millions  of  "flares."  The  whole 
place  was  bathed  in  the  ghastly  magnesium 
white  they  cast  about,  the  scene  here  and 
there  being  punctuated  by  a  red  or  green 
rocket.  It  was  indeed,  I  can  assure  you, 
one  of  the  prettiest  sights  I've  ever  wit- 
nessed. The  average  pyrotechnic  display 
pales  considerably  in  comparison.  This 
arc  of  light  was  continuous  for  some  few 
minutes,  mingled  with  the  lurid  yellow  red 
burst  of  shrapnel.  The  colour  of  shrap- 
nel bursting  at  night  is  hard  to  liken ;  it  re- 
sembles more  than  anything  a  deep  tiger 
lily  which  bloomed  for  an  infinitesimal 
space,  then  melted  into  black  oblivion. 
[142] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


So,  as  I  say,  we  waited,  as  good  soldiers 
always  do,  for  orders.  There  wasn't  much 
talking,  in  fact,  I  imagine  that  every  one 
was  rather  too  busy  with  thoughts  of  Home. 
Somehow  in  the  veriest  thick  of  things, 
there's  usually  a  thought  of  Home  creeps 
into  your  mind.  However,  here  and  there 
a  jest  or  a  laugh  came  out.  One  man  as  I 
passed  said  to  his  mate — "Write  to  her." 
Some  "her"  who  I  suppose  would  have  been 
thrice  as  excited  as  he,  had  she  known.  Oc- 
casionally, as  a  shell  burst  somewhere  near, 
the  inevitable  question,  "Where  did  that  one 
go?"  came  out;  but  conversation  was  at  a 
premium. 

Just  at  the  night  of  night,  an  hour  before 
dawn,  came  the  word  to  advance,  and  in  ex- 
tended order  across  shell-swept  ground  we 
started  over  an  area  pitted  and  potted  by 
shells,  with  here  a  clump  of  scarred  trees, 
or  there  a  few  gaunt  stones,  the  remnant  of 
a  building.  Everything  is  patterned  in  the 
Army  by  the  Guards.  To  do  things  as  they 
do  is  the  aim  of  every  one,  and  while  I've 
never  seen  them  make  an  attack,  I  have 

[143] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


walked  along  the  same  road  under  heavy 
shelling.  Therefore  I  admire  them.  Al- 
beit, I  question  if  ever  the  Guards  went 
forward  more  valiantly  than  did  those  civil- 
ian soldiery  of  ours.  The  Guards'  line  may 
perhaps  have  been  straighter,  but  it  could 
waver  no  less.  The  psychology  of  a  soldier 
in  the  brief  moments  of  an  attack  or  coun- 
ter-attack, is  something  beyond  my  ken.  In 
retrospect,  I  come  on  the  thought  I  had  as 
I  saw  that  line  move  forward:  that  line  of 
my  men,  the  men  whom  I  worked  over  dur- 
ing months  of  training,  the  men,  who  with 
me,  had  laughed  and  laboured,  cried  and 
cursed  for  many  moons,  slowly  advancing 
to  we  knew  not  what.  A  picture  of  a  green 
sward  in  Canada  months  before  came  back, 
and  I  recollected  my  exhortations  on  keep- 
ing a  line  and  steady  pace.  I  conjured  up 
also  the  visions  of  thousands  in  training  who 
sweep  over  grassy  slopes  not  cut  by  shell 
fire  or  devastated  by  warfare.  I  only  tell 
you  this  to  show  the  queer  kinks  in  my 
brain. 

On  we  went  in  the  grey  of  the  early  morn- 
[i44l 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ing,  past  verdant  stretches  of  fields,  rank 
with  ungarnered  crops,  which  were  be- 
sprinkled with  scarlet  poppies.  We  clam- 
bered through  hedge-rows  of  hawthorn  in 
bloom,  the  smell  of  which  mingled  with  the 
sweet  sickly  odour  of  "lachrymators"  or 
tear  shells.  We  dodged  shell  holes  or 
climbed  in  and  over  the  remains  of  trenches, 
all  the  while  drawing  nearer,  nearer  the 
ceaseless  rattle  of  musketry,  the  rhythmic 
rip  of  machine  guns. 

The  order  to  fix  bayonets  passed  along: 
this  done,  the  clicking  of  bolts,  to  ensure 
that  every  magazine  had  its  quota  of  car- 
tridges, sounded.  Over  a  little  rise  we 
came:  just  ahead  was  a  line  of  lurid  light 
and  noise.  Now,  night  was  going  and 
against  the  sky  we  showed  up  quite  plainly, 
a  long  thin  line  of  silhouettes,  the  lighter 
fawn  of  the  bombers'  aprons,  each  pocket 
bulging  with  its  lemon-shaped  grenade,  dis- 
tinctive from  the  others.  So  on  toward  the 
line  of  lurid  light  and  noise  we  walked. 
They  don't  run  nowadays ;  gone  is  the  glory 

[145] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


of  the  charge  with  its  huzzas  and  flashing 
swords;  it's  slow  and  steady  does  it. 

This  doesn't  take  long  to  write  but  it  was 
composed  of  minutes,  each  age-long;  and 
looking  at  it  now,  I  wonder  how  I,  or  any- 
one, got  so  far  amid  the  pandemonium  of 
bursting  shells,  siffling  bullets  and  detonat- 
ing bombs. 

From  somewhere,  one  of  our  officers 
rushed  up  and  ordered  me  to  retire  to  a 
certain  spot  about  a  half  mile,  as  they,  I 
mean  higher  command,  had  decided  to 
postpone  the  counter-attack.  Accordingly, 
back  we  started.  Daylight  with  its  tur- 
quoise sky  had  come  and  as  we  plodded 
back  the  Germans  saw  the  irregular  line. 
If  before,  we  thought  the  bombardment 
heavy,  now  it  was  tenfold,  a  tearing,  roaring 
inferno  as  the  Hun  "searched  and  brack- 
eted" the  entire  area  in  which  our  lines 
were.  Shrapnel,  whizz  bangs,  high  explo- 
sives, hurtled  and  burst  in  nerve-shattering 
salvos.  Every  one  was  mixed  up,  some  men 
of  another  company  with  ours,  also  men 
of  another  battalion.  We  walked  steadily 
[146] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


on,  until,  the  barrage  becoming  too  hot,  the 
order  was  given  to  take  cover.  Some  few 
of  us  managed  to  crouch  behind  a  hedge- 
row where,  once  a  trench,  was  now  a 
shambles.  Here  for  the  first  time  the  really 
hell  of  the  war  came  to  me.  That  trench, 
or  what  was  left  of  it,  was  congested  with 
dead  and  dying.  Men  crawled  along,  over 
dead  bodies  distorted  beyond  only  the  ken 
of  one  who  has  been  there.  We  lifted 
wounded  men  a  little  to  one  side  while  from 
each  turn  of  the  trench  came  the  heart- 
rending, throaty  sob  of  dying.  Ghastly! 
well,  I  don't  suppose  there's  a  word  been 
coined  in  English  to  describe  it.  Mean- 
while, shrapnel  rained  on  its  horrible 
hail,  high  explosive  lifted  sandbag  and  bod- 
ies househigh.  Everywhere  men  lay  half 
buried,  gasping.  Some,  reason  fled, 
climbed  out  only  to  be  struck  down  a  few 
yards  away.  And  all  this,  kept  up  for  what 
seemed  aeons,  but  really  was  only  about 
three  hours.  One  chap,  since  dead,  said  to 
me,  "I  thought  these  devils  were  running 
short  of  shells.    Well,  I'd  like  to  let  some 

[147] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


of  those  people  at  home  feel  this."  Feel  is 
the  right  word,  for  you  "feel"  a  heavy  bom- 
bardment. I  care  not  how  brave  a  man  is, 
I  say  it  reduces  him  to  the  consistency  of  a 
jelly  fish.  For  after  all,  life  is  sweet  and 
when  one  is  a  fraction  of  a  second  from  the 
grave,  he  starts  to  ponder.  Howbeit,  the 
fire  abated  and  we  gathered  together  what 
few  men  we  could.  What  regiment  mat- 
tered not.  Messengers  were  sent  to  report 
to  the  Colonel  as  to  our  position.  There 
were  just  three  officers  left  of  the  company, 
so  we  held  a  council  of  war,  and  endeav- 
oured to  see  to  the  wounded,  sending  out 
those  slightly  hurt,  then  sat  down  to  wait. 
Oh!  What  waiting  it  was!  Expectantly, 
nervously,  sitting  while  the  time  dragged 
on.  After  an  hour  or  two  had  elapsed,  one 
of  the  "runners"  we  had  sent  crawled  back 
to  say  that  the  Colonel  had  been  killed,  he 
could  find  no  other  officers,  and  would  we 
get  him  a  drink — all  in  a  breath.  He  was 
just  a  boy,  eighteen  I  think,  and  the  strain 
was  too  much  for  him.  He  was  completely 
unstrung,  for,  after  awhile,  he  laughed 
[148] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


rather  hysterically  and  babbled  incoher- 
ently. Suddenly  he  jumped  up,  climbed 
into  the  open,  his  sole  thought  to  get  away; 
but  there,  a  scant  hundred  yards,  we  saw 
him  fall.  He  had  found  quiet  and  peace 
all  right.  After  a  time  one  of  the  boys 
crawled  out  to  find  him  dead. 

Gradually,  as  the  morning  wore  on, 
limping  or  crawling  men  came  up  to  re- 
port themselves.  Men  of  other  units,  men 
of  our  own,  and  one  poor  chap,  quite  in- 
sane, who  insisted  that  one  of  the  officers 
was  his  brother.  Up  above,  aeroplanes 
purred,  as,  glinting  in  the  sunlight,  they 
kept  off  the  enemy  machines,  whose  object 
would  have  been  to  discover  the  position 
of  ourselves  and  other  reinforcements.  I 
sat  and  looked  at  a  little  triangular  lake 
shimmering  in  the  distance,  and  longed  for 
some  fish.  I  recollect  resolving  that  when 
I  got  leave,  the  first  meal  in  England  would 
be  fish.  Looking  back,  I  cannot  remember 
that  I  ever  doubted  I  would  get  leave,  the 
idea  never  struck  me  that  I  might  go  on 

[149] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


"The  Long  Leave."  So  is  the  human  brain 
constituted. 

Regularly,  at  intervals  all  morning,  the 
area  was  shelled  by  the  Germans.  Start- 
ing in  one  place  they  systematically  blasted 
almost  every  square  yard  of  the  ground, 
and  each  time  seemed  to  be  worse  than  the 
former  ones;  tho'  God  knows  any  one  was 
a  cataclysm. 

The    day   wore   on.     In   mid-afternoon 

came  word  to  proceed  to  there  to 

counter-attack  a  certain  part  of  the  line. 
We  gathered  together  the  men,  some  eighty 
that  were  immediately  at  hand,  and  started 
off.  It  was  a  trip  practically  in  the  open 
as  any  trenches  had  been  so  battered  as  to 
be  useless.  From  every  direction  came  long 
files  of  men,  all  centralising  along  a  given 
line.  I  can't  remember  the  exact  time  the 
thing  was  planned  for,  but  we  started  off. 
Of  course  so  did  the  artillery.  Ours 
opened  up,  and  if  we  got  unutterable  hell 
before  so  did  the  Germans  now.  However, 
they  still  had  some  ammunition,  and  the 
[ISO] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


shells  burst  there — and  there — and  there — 
and  then — 

A  drink  of  water; 

A  scarlet  cross  fronting  a  vision  in  blue 
and  white; 

Cool  deft  hands; 

White  sheets; 

The  throb  of  a  motor; 

The  swirl  of  water; 

The  tiny  toot  of  an  English  engine ; 

Another  motor; 

A  bunch  of  roses  mixed  up  with  eye- 
glasses and  perfume; 

A  white  handkerchief; 

A  few  jolts; 

Abed; 

Familiar  street  noises  with  the  dawning 
realisation  of  a  hospital  in  Blighty,  dear 
old  London  at  last. 

That's  the  best  way  I  can  tell  you.     I'm 
enclosing  a  couple  of  pictures  of  the  Red 
House.    Will  write  again  this  week. 
Yours, 

Billy. 


1*5*1 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


Moriturus  Te  Salutat 

McCarthy  was  his  name.  On  his  attesta- 
tion paper  was  the  statement  that  he  was  a 
chef,  and  in  the  C.  E.  F.  he  was  usually  to 
be  found  in  the  cook  house.  The  chef  of 
even  a  second-rate  hotel  would  have  blushed 
had  one  linked  his  name  with  Mac's,  for  I 
presume  that  he,  McCarthy,  in  his  entire 
life  had  never  handled  "hors  d'oeuvre 
varies,"  or  that  "boeuf  froid"  suggested  to 
him  anything  but  a  joint  of  red  and  yellow 
roasted  yesterday.  No,  Mac  knew  nothing 
of  table  d'hote  meals  or  French  pastry. 
His  cooking  was  of  the  kind  known  as  Mul- 
ligan, and  a  rattling  good  Mulligan  he 
made.  I've  stood  and  watched  him  many 
a  day  last  summer,  as  under  the  canvas  cook 
house  of  a  camp  in  Canada,  he  diced  onions 
with  a  butcher  knife,  non-chalantly  stirring 
boiling  rice  with  the  same  knife — a  per- 
functory wipe  on  an  erstwhile  white  apron 

[152] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


being  as  it  were  the  "entr'acte."  In  fact, 
Mac's  culinary  abilities  had  been  fostered 
in  camps  not  military,  but  lumbering  and 
construction.  His  was  an  art  that  could  set 
a  pot  of  beans  to  soak  yesterday,  and  to- 
night, for  200  men,  turn  out  a  dish  of  "pork 
and"  so  tempting  that  I  was  often  wont  to 
ask  for  a  plate  of  them  myself.  He  also 
turned  out  porridge  in  such  quantities  as  to 
stagger  one  who  had  never  watched  a 
hungry  hundred,  fresh  from  one  hour's 
physical  line  up  for  their  morning  feast. 
What  boots  it  if  there  were  lumps  or  if  per- 
haps one  got  a  small  ladle  full  that  could 
have  stood  another  quarter  hour  cooking; 
it  filled  up  that  insatiable  maw  of  a  man  in 
training. 

Such  a  cook  was  McCarthy,  but  he  shone 
in  another  sphere  with  even  greater  bril- 
liance than  that  of  the  cook  house.  That 
was  as  a  comedian. 

His  assets  were  cooking  and  comedy,  and 
when  Generals  and  things  came  round  to 
"suspect"  our  battalion,  all  ranks  being  on 
parade,  these  attributes  did  not  redound  par- 

[i53] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


ticularly  to  the  glory  of  the  pageant.  For 
McCarthy  never  learned  to  "present"  a 
Ross  Mark  III  in  three  motions.  Whether 
he  carried  his  comedy  on  into  the  parade 
ground  of  Generals,  or  whether  it  was  be- 
cause his  hands  were  more  adept  with  a 
chef's  knife  than  a  rifle,  I'll  not  judge ;  but 
his  "present,"  done  in  manner  similar  to  the 
way  he  stirred  the  rice,  always  spoiled  the 
effect,  and  I've  often  cursed  him  to  myself 
when  hearing  a  movement  behind  me  after 
all  was  quiet,  knew  McCarthy  to  be  still 
"presenting  arms." 

However,  forgotten  were  these  little 
faults  when,  just  after  reveille  on  orderly 
dog  duty,  one  walked  into  the  kitchens  and 
McCarthy  was  the  first  to  say — "Good 
morning,  Sir;  it's  a  trifle  cold  this  morning. 
Will  you  have  a  cup  of  coffee?"  I  can't  say 
about  the  other  chaps,  but  I  always  did,  and 
as  one  overlooked  the  kitchens,  inquiring 
from  the  Sergeant  cook  if  things  were  un- 
der way  or  the  rations  all  right,  McCarthy 
usually  produced  a  crisp,  hot-buttered  slice 
1*543 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


of  brown  toast.  So,  for  these,  we  forgave 
those. 

But  as  I  say,  far  above  his  cooking  was 
his  comedy.  A  master  in  the  art  of  re- 
partee, of  his  kind,  he  never  failed  to  have  a 
jest  ready  when  the  chance  came ;  or  if  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  man  got  up  a  concert,  Mc- 
Carthy was  sure  to  be  there,  either  head- 
lining or  as  an  added  attraction.  His  was 
the  comedy  that  on  the  fields  of  Flanders 
"bucks  up"  a  whole  company,  nay  a  bat- 
talion, as  some  merry  quip  just  made  is 
laughingly  told  from  bay  to  bay,  so  that  in 
the  midst  of  shelling  a  laugh  infectious  and 
hearty  rings  as  a  tocsin. 

I  couldn't  tell  you  all  the  merry  words  he 
uttered — all  the  good-natured  banter  he 
gave  between  the  day  he  'listed  and  the  day 
he  died.  And  that  reminds  me,  I  must  to 
my  muttons. 

It  was  just  at  "stand  down"  one  morning 
last  May — a  beautiful  morn  it  was  I  re- 
member. The  grass  was  green  and  the 
shrapnel-scarred  trees  were  trying  to  burst 
out  into  a  few  sparse  leaves.     A  hawthorn 

[i55] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


bush  or  two  just  to  the  rear  of  the  trench 
was  white  with  bloom,  as  Maeterlinck  says 
"Yielding  up  its  soul  in  perfume"  distinctly 
noticeable  even  among  the  varied  smells  of 
the  trench.  In  the  distance,  over  from  the 
Bosche  trenches,  one  heard  the  plaintive 
triple  cry  of  a  cuckoo,  that  hoohoo,  hoohoo, 
hoohooed  every  morning.  Here  and  there 
a  swallow  flitted  and  dove  in  the  first  smile 
of  old  Sol  rimming  the  tree  tops  to  the  east, 
and  all  was  still,  as  still  as  that  first  hour  of 
dawn  on  the  Front  can  be,  sometimes. 

I  remember  it  well  and  thought  how 
ominous  it  was,  and  as  I  walked  with  a 
once  full  rum  jar  along  bay  and  traverse, 
I  pondered  upon  the  stillness.  I  came  to 
the  bay  where  McCarthy  was  on  duty. 
Alone  he  stood,  lazily  cleaning  his  rifle, 
meanwhile  watching  a  mess  tin  of  water 
heating  over  a  candle.  He  looked  at  the 
rum  jar  and  laughingly  asked  if  he  couldn't 
have  his  ration,  knowing  full  well  that  I 
knew  he'd  had  it;  when  with  a  dull  boom 
from  the  east  came  the  herald  announcing 
the  morning  hate.  I  passed  on,  was  in  the 
[156] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


traverse,  when,  hearing  the  sough  of  a  shell, 
I  turned.  There  stood  McCarthy,  rifle  in 
hand,  face  turned  to  the  azure  above  and  in 
his  loudest  tones,  addressed  the  screaming 
shell  with  "Good  morning,  Fritz." 

I  heard  him  say  it  as  plainly,  as  at  the 
same  instant  I  heard  it  burst  almost  directly 
overhead.  Its  pall  of  black  smoke  hovered 
there,  while  its  rain  of  death  descended  with 
the  peculiar  indescribable  whine  of  shrap- 
nel. It  caromed  off  my  tin  hat,  it  smashed 
the  rum  charge  in  my  hand,  it  ripped  sand 
bag  and  tore  corrugated  iron,  but,  as  they 
say,  "It  didn't  have  my  number  on  it." 
One  of  the  freaks  of  shell  fire.  It  left  me, 
but  took  McCarthy. 

I  turned  and  saw  him  slowly  sink  clutch- 
ing at  his  tunic.  I  sent  an  inquiring  in- 
dividual, whose  head  popped  out  of  a  dug- 
out close  by,  for  the  stretcher-bearer,  and 
with  a  man  who  came  moved  McCarthy  to 
another  bay.  There  he  lay  as  I  cut  off  his 
tunic,  his  shirt,  only  to  find  his  breast  and 
shoulders  peppered  as  a  colander.  Just 
over  his  heart  was  a  huge  ragged  hole,  from 

[157] 


A  SUNNY  SUBALTERN 


which  the  red  arterial  blood  pulsed  slowly 
in  great  jets.  He  was  gone — I  knew  that — 
but  I  forced  a  quarter  grain  of  morphia  be- 
tween the  blood-flecked  lips. 

The  stretcher-bearers  came,  but  Mc- 
Carthy needed  no  shell  dressings,  no  iodine 
capsule.  The  ashy  grey  of  his  face,  the 
wild  stare  of  his  eye,  the  convulsive  clutch 
of  his  hand  betokened  that  the  strange 
metamorphosis  known  as  Death  was  silently 
creeping  nigh. 

I  gave  him  a  cup  of  water.  As  I  low- 
ered his  head  a  wan  smile  lit  his  counte- 
nance and  he  weakly  said — "Do  you  remem- 
ber, Sir,  the  night  you  said  'Gunga  Din?' 
Well,  that's  how  the  water  tastes."  And 
then  to  some  of  the  boys  who  had  gathered, 
he  turned,  "No  more  Mulligan,  boys." 
And  with  the  same  smile  to  me,  "It's  funny, 
Sir,  how  I  spoke  to  that  shell.  It  ain't  often 
one  calls  their  own  number." 

Which  was  how  McCarthy,  cook-come- 
dian, in  his  own  way,  said 

Moriturus  Te  Salutat 
[158] 


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